Constellations in Chaos
by PandasInSpades
Summary: There's a new killer in town, leaving young, wealthy women dead in his wake. It's up to the CSI team to figure out who it is, before they hit too close to home. Eventual C/S relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners. That being said, I tried really hard to stick to an accurate timeline, but there may be some small errors here and there to make the story work. Feedback is appreciated. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!**

It starts with a simple kick.

Gil is handing out assignments for the day, his usual obliviousness at play, as he misses the head next to me loll to one side, the owner's eyes shut tight. I inch forward, my foot connecting with a firm calf muscle, rousing the body on my left to alertness.

"I got it!" Sara blurts out, her eyes still clouded, her speech heavy with sleep. Gil turns at the interruption, confused by her out of character eagerness.

"OK...You can team up with Catherine, then. Nick, that means you're with me. Good luck tonight everyone, and be safe." She bends to massage the point of impact on her leg, and when she hears my name, I notice the disappointment flash across her face.

* * *

Now, we're knee deep in trash and what I can only assume is human and animal waste, processing the scene of a dead body that was reported to the authorities by a local hoarder. I catch snippets of the conversation the cops are having with him, and am guessing he won't be living here much longer. I find Sara in the backyard, if you can call it that. Broken machines and boxes of papers stacked as high as a person make a maze of garbage, but the smell is what slaps you in the face.

"So, what's the verdict?"

"Definitely stabbed, but I'm not seeing any defensive wounds. There's what looks like a university ID stuck underneath her, but I'll wait until David gets here to grab it. I'd say she's well off or has somebody in her life who can afford the finer things though, judging by the shoes." I glance down, taking in the body fully for the first time, having spent the last thirty minutes trying to explain to the owner, a Mr. Shipp, that a dead body trumps his collection of litter boxes and no, he couldn't watch us work to ensure we didn't 'make a mess'. Sara's right. The victim's wearing a pair of Manolo's I'd give up a week's vacation to own. In fact, everything on the deceased woman is expensive, high end fashion.

"That or she wanted someone to think she was wealthy." Sara nods, returning to the body to collect some more trace elements and take photos. I scope out the perimeter, cursing the piles of junk at every turn. Trying to sort through all of this is going to be hell.

Back at the lab, I meet with Robbins in autopsy, Sara electing to start sifting through the mountain of fibers and random particulates recovered from the body and the surrounding area. She's in a quiet room towards the back of the building, her face buried in a microscope. I take a minute before I enter, admiring her dedication and drive. We may not always get along, but I wouldn't want anybody else with me on this one. I need her eyes, her unwavering focus. She looks up, no doubt from that eerie feeling of being watched, and gives me a quizzical look. I feel the heat inadvertently rise to my cheeks at being caught staring, and make my way into the room, relaying what I learned downstairs.

"COD was suffocation. Doc found these in the throat." I lay down the small bag with the white fiber in it next to Sara's already overflowing pile.

"The stabbing was post mortem. Fifteen knife wounds in total, all isolated to the front of the body. Whoever this guy is, he's full of rage." Sara motions to a piece of paper on her left.

"Hate too. He urinated on the body." My nose crinkles in disgust despite myself. The depths of depravity that exist in mankind can make your stomach churn. The utter disregard for another life is something I don't think I'll ever understand.

"Doc also found this," I say, passing her the folder tucked under my arm. "Looks like he burned four circles of varying size into her skin. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it." She stares at the picture, some unknown emotion flitting through her eyes.

"Where?"

"Left shoulder." She nods, tucking the photo back into its folder. "Any thoughts?" She shakes her head, and I find her gaze, searching for truth, but she lowers her eyes back to the microscope. I know Sara was abused as a child, and I can't begin to speculate as to what atrocities she was victim to, nor do I want to. I leave her alone, making for my office where mountains of paperwork wait for me mockingly.

I sit down at my desk with a thud, taking in the, at least, five new manila folders, no doubt left by Gil. I open whatever's closest to me and start the daunting task before me. I can't concentrate. My mind keeps going back to the haunted look on Sara's face when she saw that photograph. For a split second, she almost looked scared - which scares me. She's so guarded around me, and I can't say I haven't given her reasons to be. We're both 'sharp women', so it's no surprise we've butted heads in the past, but I wish we could move forward. Or left. Just move. We're stagnant in the roles we've carved out for ourselves, and it's not working anymore. I tell myself today is the last day I'll let us be distant. I'll make the effort to get closer if she will, but somehow, I don't think it's going to be easy.

* * *

"Sara!" I catch her just as she's leaving the building. "You wanna grab a coffee or something? Maybe hit the diner?" I try to play it cool, but I watch as confusion colors her face, morphing into wariness, before all emotion disappears from her features. I start doubting my decision when she shrugs.

"Sure. Meet you there in ten." She exits through the double doors, leaving me pleasantly surprised.

She's already at a booth, towards the back, nursing a steamy mug of liquid from between her hands.

"You must have more of a lead foot than me," I say, testing the waters of conversation as I toss my bag and sunglasses into the booth before me.

"Or maybe I wanted coffee more than you." A waitress appears at the table, jaw working on a large wad of gum that she pouches in her cheek while she takes our order. I go first, ordering a short stack of pancakes, mixed berries and yogurt, and a black coffee. Sara orders dry toast.

"Not too hungry, then?" She shrugs, and I fall into silence with her, my fingers nervously tapping the shiny Formica, my words lost somewhere between my throat and lips. The waitress returns with my coffee, and I add two sugars while we both absently stir the hot liquids before us, neither of us seeming to know what to do with our hands. The food arrives, and I'm grateful for the distraction, digging in immediately, unaware of how hungry I am. I'm half way through my pancakes when Sara's voice cuts through the tension at our table.

"Why did you invite me out?" I swallow, half choking on syrupy sweetness, taken aback by the combativeness wrapped around her words. I glance at her toast, untouched in front of her.

"Because you're a cheap date." I see the tug at the corner of her lips, but she suppresses the smile.

"Really, Catherine." I survey her defiant posture, hard eyes daring me to meet the challenge I find there. I settle for honesty, hoping that at least it will catch her off guard.

"I don't want to fight, Sara. I thought that we could put our past differences behind us and move forward. I'm not asking to be your best friend, but I am asking for a truce. I'm sick of this push and pull that exists between us, aren't you?" I see her struggle to trust what I'm saying, and I can relate, always waiting for that other shoe to drop myself.

The waitress returns and lays the check down in the center of the table. I reach for the small slip just as Sara does the same, her fingers sliding across the top of my hand before she jerks away. I shiver at the contact.

"I can pay for myself."

"Of course you can. But I invited. I pay." She looks like she's about to protest but bites her tongue and nods. I consider it the answer to my question from before and flash her a small smile. We walk out together, saying goodbye as we part for our vehicles. I squint against the vulgar morning sun, cursing when I realize I left my sunglasses in the booth. I make my way back through the restaurant in time to see our waitress clearing away our plates - and the ten dollar bill Sara slipped under her untouched breakfast. I sigh and retrieve the glasses. So much for small victories.

* * *

The next night at start of shift, I sit in my office, staring at the phone, dreading the call I know I have to make. The receiver is heavy in my hands, and I dial the numbers slowly. A woman answers on the first ring.

"Ally? Is that you? Honey?" The voice I hear is frantic and desperate, and it breaks my heart.

"No, ma'am. My name is Catherine Willows. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab." There's a moment of silence, the static-y sounds of background noise the only indication she's still on the phone, before a piercing wail crashes against my eardrum. She knows.

"Hello? Who is this?" This time, it's a man voice, worry evident in his tone.

"Hello, sir. My name is Catherine Willows. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Are you Mr. Ronald Korr?" He hesitates before answering, like it might change what he knows is coming next.

"Yes." It's barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry to have to ask you this, sir, but we need you to identify a body that was found last night."

* * *

After the phone call, I rest my head on my desk, folders and all, and take deep breaths to center myself. A knock at my door rouses me from my state.

"It's open." Sara enters, two small take out cups in her hand. She sets one down, nudging it slightly in my direction.

"For you." She says it softly, without making eye contact. I take the offering readily.

"Bless you for this. I just got off the phone with the Korrs. They're on their way in to do the identification." She nods, shifting uncomfortably.

"I'll be around if you need me."

"OK. I'll find you when I'm done." I thank her again for the coffee, wanting her to know the gesture is appreciated. I know this is her way of extending the olive branch, however small it may seem. I take a sip of the beverage and sigh with pleasure. It's heaven in a cup. I glance at the label, not recognizing the name of the cafe but noticing the scrawl in black sharpie close to the top: _Blk/2 sug._

She must have noticed the way I take my coffee. The investigator in me isn't surprised, but the woman in me is flattered and touched by her thoughtfulness, smiling as I take a sip of my new favorite brew.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!**

* * *

 **Just wanted to say thanks for the interest and the review(s). It means a lot! I'll do my best to update once a week.**

* * *

It's been two days since we found the body of whom we now know was Alexandra Korr, twenty years old. By all accounts, she was a good kid. Her teachers and friends described her as kind and generous and not the sort to get mixed up in any sort of illicit activities or run with a bad crowd. Her parents shared the same sentiments. I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a migraine inching across my temples.

"Greg says he has something for us." I look up, wondering how long Sara's been standing in the doorway.

"Finally." We weren't able to extract a DNA profile from the urine on the victim's clothes, due to cross contamination, and besides the fiber found in her throat, all the other samples we collected were unrelated. Our guy's good at his work, which is bad for us.

"My two favorite ladies!" Greg exclaims as we enter the room.

"So, what've you got?" Sara asks, her friendship with the tech evident in her change of voice, higher and more congenial than the tone she uses with me.

"Oh, nothing. Just the evidence that's gonna solve this thing!"

"Well, pony up with the goods, Mr. Case Breaker."

"The fiber from the throat is wool, but not just any wool. It's Merino wool."

"What's so special about it?" I chime in.

"It's more expensive than other wool and only comes from certain areas. Compared to cotton, it's a little over ten times the price." He hesitates, waiting for one of us to say something before continuing. "It's commonly used in high end athletic wear due to its moisture wicking properties and ability to regulate heat."

"So, we're looking for someone who spares no expense when it comes to gym clothes?"

"Not exactly. This wool was woven into yarn."

"So, essentially, it could be made into anything. Blankets, clothing, tea cozies."

"Well, yeah. But this particular fiber has two sets of DNA on it."

"Way to go, Gregg-o!" I flash him a smile and take the print out of the results, hoping this is the break we need. After confirming one of the DNA samples to be from our victim, we submit the second sample, from a male, to CODIS, hoping he's been convicted or arrested in the past. It's all we've got.

The rest of the shift drags by, a lone B and E the only case coming across the wire to break up the monotony of paperwork I've been trudging through slowly. It's a fairly open and shut affair, as the suspect left his fingerprints all over the scene. The fact that he's a known criminal in the area didn't help him out any either. He broke in for drug money, I assume. I hand over the information to the police, my part being done, and gather my stuff back at the lab to head home. I run into Nick on my way out, who invites me for drinks with everyone. My migraine from earlier receding, I accept, thinking a glass of wine would be wonderful.

* * *

I arrive last, greeting everyone at a large corner booth.

"What's your poison, Cath?" Nicky asks, standing to fetch whatever I come up with, always the gentleman. I order a glass of pinot and slide into the space at the end of the table. We share anecdotes from our days, make jokes and laugh, and relish in the acceptance and familiarity of each other. Nick and Warrick ask about Lindsay, and I tell them about her latest school projects and her growing interest in boys, which I'm not liking at all. I'm thankful for the camaraderie I've found among them. They're my family. After a while, the boys decide to play darts. Sara and I both opt out, leaving us alone.

A bartender appears next to us, and I order a third glass of wine, telling him to bring a glass of water as well, the warm flush from alcohol tinting my cheeks. Sara's been drinking club soda since I got here, mindful of her consumption around us since her DUI. I know she's still embarrassed about the incident, her hard outer shell having been cracked to reveal a weakness. As odd as it sounds, it made her seem more human to me, more relatable. We lapse into silence, our usual awkward tension filling the space left by the guys. I decide I'm tipsy enough to wade into waters deeper than small talk, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"So, what's up with you and Gil?" I immediately regret my decision. Her semi relaxed posture changes to rigid and stiff, and her tone is clipped when she responds.

"Nothing." She removes the lemon wedge from the rim of her glass, spearing it with her straw and smashing it against the bottom.

"I just thought-" She doesn't let me finish.

"Well, you thought wrong." I purse my lips, debating whether I'm inebriated enough to push this issue. Something transpired between them. Her change in demeanor was enough to indicate that much. Brazenly, I throw caution to the wind. Never having been one to censor myself before, I don't intend to start now.

"Come on, Sara. It's obvious there's something going on. We all see how you act around each other." She suddenly looks panicked, like she just realized she's been sitting here naked the whole time. Her eyes flit from me to the guys playing darts, and I notice the crimson dyeing her cheeks and ears. She's probably thinking the worst.

"Hey, we don't sit around and talk about you behind your back or anything, but we're investigators. We can't help but notice things." It seems like hours before she sighs, her shoulders dropping and her chest deflating like a balloon. I say her name, and when she lifts her head, her gaze is unguarded, emotions I can't name swimming through the dark brown oceans of her eyes. I reach out, wanting to offer comfort, but she draws back before I touch her. Trying not to feel stung by her recoil, I take the last sip of my wine before pushing the glass away, my hands coming to rest in my lap. I watch her mouth open and close, trying to form words. Her brows furrow as she nervously traces the beads of sweat sliding down her glass.

"I guess I wanted there to be something." I understand how hard it is for her to open up, especially to me, and I approach the topic tentatively.

"But he didn't?"

"No, he did." The confusion must be evident on my face, because she continues before I have a chance to respond.

"He said he wanted to be with me, but he didn't want to be a consolation prize." The guys choose this moment show up, laughing and ribbing each other. I know our conversation's over for tonight. I smile and feign interest in the outcome of their game, silently cursing them for having horrible timing. I glance at Sara, but she's turned her back to me, cajoling Greg about his terrible dart skills. I say my goodbyes to the group and go home.

* * *

My house is empty, my mother having left after making sure Lindsay got on the bus, so I head right to bed. I toss and turn for a few minutes, my mind replaying the talk I had with Sara, her soft, sad voice the last thing I hear before sliding into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!**

* * *

I'm awoken from my dreams by the angry, taunting ring of my cell. Sara's voice is sharp on the other line, and she rattles off an address before hanging up.

"Good morning to you too," I grumble into the phone, before tossing it on my bed and drowsily rising to a sitting position. The clock must be a liar, because it says I've only been asleep for three hours. I groan as I head to the bathroom, welcoming the warm droplets of water that await me in the shower. I love this city, but she's a bitch.

When I get to the scene, I immediately recognize the logo on the front of the building from the coffee cup Sara gave me. My stomach growls, and I realize I haven't eaten since last night. I scrounge through my car, searching for anything edible. My fingers brush across a plastic wrapper between the seats, and I pull up a flattened breakfast bar, unopened. Hurrah! I scarf down the oat and fruit concoction like an animal, still wiping crumbs off my lips as I greet the detective.

"One of your crew is already in the alley. Beat me here, actually. You guys ever sleep?"

"I wish." I hear him chuckling behind me as I survey the alley, finding no one in sight. I head towards a behemoth of a dumpster, green and rusty, situated in the far left corner.

"Hello?" Sara's head pops up from inside the bin, a banana peel stuck to her shoulder and coffee grounds smeared across her goggles. I stifle my grin, noting the serious look on her face.

"It's him." her voice is flat, her words absolute.

"Tell me what you see," I say as I amble into the jumpsuit Sara so thoughtfully laid out for me on top of her evidence case. It's a kind gesture, one she's never extended before to me.

"Stab wounds just like the first victim. Expensive clothing. Pretty sure he urinated on her too, but I can't be sure with all the fluids. " I crawl into the dumpster, the smell of rotten food and waste assaulting my nostrils.

"Found in garbage too."

"He thinks these women are trash, Catherine." I bag some brown flecks I find on the victim's shoe. It'd be nice if they added up to something, but I'm not holding my breath.

"Maybe he's leveling the playing field." Sara turns to face me, waiting for me to finish my thought. "Maybe he thinks he's the one who's trash, so he places them in garbage, as if to say, now we're equal. Now, you're no better than me." She doesn't say anything, and we continue sifting through the mess, both of us aware there will be nothing here that gets us any closer to the truth.

* * *

After taking my second shower of the day back at the lab, Sara and I meet with Doc Robbins. She hasn't said anything since we left the scene, and the hostility radiating from her is almost palpable. This case is getting to her, crawling under skin like chiggers, and I know Sara. She'll itch until she bleeds.

"Pleasure to see you both," Robbins says warmly.

"You too," I reply. Sara stays silent.

"Well, this is definitely the work of the same guy. Meet Rachel Wilder, twenty-two years old. Fifteen stab wounds like the previous victim, all post mortem. Same white fiber found in the throat. You'll want to see this, though." He motions for us to join him on the other side of the autopsy table and lifts the body, exposing the back of the left shoulder. There are four burn marks, but while the other burn marks were more of a square pattern, these are more linear. There's a sharp intake of breath to my right before Sara leaves the autopsy room without a word. Doc looks at me questioningly, and I shrug, no more knowledgeable about her sudden departure. I thank him, taking the collected fiber and pictures of the burn marks with me.

I drop the fiber off with Greg, and I hear him say something to me, but I don't stop to chat. I find Sara in her back lab.

"What the hell was that?" I'm irritated, my lack of sleep doing nothing to help my approach.

"I needed some air." She matches my glare, nostrils flaring, and I know I should take a second, breathe before I continue. I do neither.

"Maybe you need some 'air' from this case."

"Excuse me?" She stands now, using her full height to her advantage, forcing me to take a step back.

"You heard me. I need your head in the game , seeing as our killer was just bumped up to a serial, and we have nothing to go on except some expensive wool and unknown DNA." She closes the gap between us, and I can feel her breath, hot against my cheeks.

"You are not taking me off this case, Catherine." She says my name like a warning.

"I'm the lead on this case. I can take you off if I need to, Sara." I match her threatening tone, the environment around us seeming charged, crackling and sizzling with anger. Her eyes narrow, and she looks like she wants to hit me, her hands balling into fists at her side.

"Everything OK?" Gil's voice makes us both start, and the atmosphere in the room begins to ebb slowly, fizzling out like a spent firecracker. Sara repeats her performance from the morgue, and I turn to follow, but Gil's hand on my shoulder stops me.

"Give her some space, Cath."

"She doesn't need space, Gil. She needs therapy." His eyes fall to the floor before finding my own.

"I'll talk to her, Catherine, but what she doesn't need is you doubting her." His words are soft, and like usual, right. I sigh, taking a seat at a nearby stool, feeling drained as the adrenaline from the fight leaves my body.

"I don't know how to talk to her. We're just too different to be on the same page." A knowing smile rests on his face.

"I think you're more alike than you realize."

"I bet." The skepticism coats my words like moss.

"Take the rest of the day. Go home, get some sleep. It'll do you good." I don't hesitate at his offer and get up to leave. Sleep sounds like the best idea he's ever had.

* * *

At home, I struggle to relax, my fatigue from earlier replaced with guilt. I kick myself for falling back into old habits with Sara and send her a text, apologizing for my actions. I don't expect a response, but when I get nothing back, I feel even worse. I want to know her. I want her to know me - know that I'm more than a hard ass in heels. I'm going to fix this, whether she likes it or not.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!**

* * *

"Mom?" I ignore the small voice, not wanting her to know I'm awake. The voice repeats, louder this time.

"Mom?" I wait ten seconds, then fly up from the bed, wrapping my arms around Lindsay's middle and pulling her under the blankets with me. She squeals with surprise, giggles racking her body as I tickle her sides and kiss her cheeks.

"Mom! Stop! I'm too old for this stuff!"

"Nope! You're never too old!" My laughter joins her own, and I send a silent thank you to the universe for blessing me with such a wonderful daughter. Her hair falls over her face, and I brush the stray lock behind her ear.

"How's my baby girl? How was school?"

"Good and good. My report went well. Mrs. Tyne really liked the toilet paper roll view finders we made to help find the constellations."

"Told ya."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think I could spend the night at Abby's house?" I don't let it show, but I'm disappointed. It's my fault we don't get as much time together as I'd like. Since Eddie died, I've been trying to be Lindsay's mother and father, trying to fill that void with as much love as possible, but I wonder if I'm failing. Her face is hopeful as she waits for my answer, and I can't bring myself to deny the request.

"Sure, honey." She leans in, giving me a hug, before scooting out from under the covers.

"Thanks, mom! Grandma said she'd drop me off on her way to her book club if you said yes." Of course she did.

"Just call me when you want picked up tomorrow, and we'll do something fun. Just us."

"K. Thanks again. Love you!" She bounds out the door, blonde waves bouncing behind her.

"Love you too, baby." Now, what do I do with my night?

* * *

I flip through TV channels absently, settling on a documentary about ostriches. Ugly birds, if you ask me. I check my phone for what must be the fifth time this hour, hoping Sara might've replied. 'NO NEW MESSAGES' glares back at me from the screen, and I'm reminded of how few friends I have as I scroll through my contacts to find the brunette's number. The phone rings once before going to voice mail, and I know she rejected the call. I throw the phone across the couch and slump down into the cushions. I'm in the middle of learning about ostrich races when an idea occurs to me. I dial the front desk at work, making a flimsy excuse about needing a signature for a document, and ask for Sara's address. If the mountain won't come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain.

Sara's house is on a quiet street lined with trees and picket fences. I imagine kids playing in yards during the day, dogs barking, neighbors waving across lawns. It's not the neighborhood I would've expected. I double check the address I scrawled on the back of some junk mail as I pull into the driveway of a quaint bungalow set back from the road. The yard is well groomed, a small bed of purple and white flowers to the right of the porch and a stone sun dial to the left. I notice a blue sedan in the open garage, knowing that it's not Sara's car. Her black Tahoe is nowhere in sight, and I start to worry that I have the wrong place as I approach the front door. It doesn't hurt to at least check, I guess.

I'm greeted by possibly one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. She's tall and lean, obviously athletic, toned biceps peeking out from the sleeves of her t-shirt. Her shiny, flaxen hair frames her face in bouncy, curls, and her eyes are as green and sparkly as emeralds staring back at me.

"Can I help you?" Her voice is pleasant and cheerful, and she doesn't seem fazed as I bumble for words.

"I, uh, I'm looking for Sara Sidle. I think I have the wrong house."

"You've got the right place. Sar! It's for you!" She shoots me a smile through the screen door before retreating back into the house, her hand lightly squeezing Sara's arm as she passes her in the narrow entryway. I feel a twitch in my gut, like the start of heartburn and attribute it to my nervousness at being caught off guard. Sara freezes when she sees me, staring at me through metal mesh, seemingly debating on whether to talk to me or just shut the door in my face. She opts for the former, pulling the door shut behind her as she steps onto the porch, forcing me to retreat and putting distance between me and her home.

"What are you doing here, Catherine?" She snaps at me, obviously not appreciating my unannounced appearance.

"You didn't answer my text, and you rejected my call. I figured you couldn't ignore me if I came to you." I leave out the part about me not having anything better to do on a Saturday night than watch National Geographic specials and harass my coworkers.

"I'm busy."

"I can see that," I say, arching an eyebrow, "And I'm sorry to have interrupted your evening." I turn to leave, making it to my car door before I hear Sara's voice close behind me.

"We can talk tomorrow."

"Sure." She heads back into her house, no farewell or details given. I drive home feeling stupid and slightly embarrassed, internally chastising myself for being so reckless. I really need some more friends.

* * *

The chime of the doorbell startles me awake, and I roll off the couch, my knee smacking against the edge of the coffee table. Cursing, I make my way to the door, seeing the outline of Sara's figure through the glass panels. I run a hand through my hair, trying to tame the wild mane of knots and open the door. She has sunglasses on, but I can see her taking in my appearance, scanning me from head to foot.

"You're bleeding." I follow her gaze to my knee.

"Shit. Come in." I don't wait for her to enter and head to the kitchen, hobbling as I go, trying to keep the blood from dripping on the carpet. I grab a paper towel and sit down at the dining table, finally hearing the front door shut. Sara joins me in the room but doesn't sit. She rests a hand on the back of a chair, the other holding a cup of coffee. I assume her not getting me one as well is payback for my showing up at her house unannounced and unwelcome. Fair enough. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, looking around at the artwork on the walls and the furniture I spent forever picking out.

"You have a nice house." She pulls out a chair and sits on the edge, her knee bouncing the cup in her hand. She's nervous about something.

"I'm not going to take you off the case, Sara. I need your help. And thanks."

"I wouldn't have let you, anyways." I don't doubt her. I thought the statement would calm her, thought she was worried about being pulled from an investigation. I was wrong.

"Is there something you want to tell me, though?" She stills her jittery movements, eyes locked on my own. I catch a glimpse of the struggle in her eyes, the battle between yes and no, and I hold her stare. I don't know whether it's personal or has to do with the case, but whatever it is, it's going to drive a wedge between us sooner rather than later.

"No." She notices my disappointment, and her gaze finally falters. Every time I think we're closer to moving forward, Sara pushes me back. She must feel guilty, because she offers up a topic I wasn't going to broach.

"Liz and I aren't together."

"And Liz was the smoking hot blonde that answered your door?" The blush creeps up her neck slowly, settling into her cheeks, and she fidgets with the lid on her coffee cup.

"Uh, yeah."

"Kinda seemed like it to me." I nudge her leg with my wound free knee, and she jumps, the contact seeming to jolt her like electricity. I wonder if she'll ever not shrink away from my touch - or my presence.

"We're just friends."

"Uh huh. I thought maybe she was your first prize." It takes a minute for Sara to get my reference to our conversation in the bar the other night, but when she does, the blush in her cheeks drains and her eyes grow hard. The chirp of her phone slices through the thick air around us, and she glances quickly at the screen before standing abruptly to leave.

"I have to go." Once again, she walls me out, always putting distance between us that I don't know if I can cross.

"Everything okay?" She turns and nods, already halfway out of the room. "Are we okay, Sara?" She stops and sighs, her hand in mid turn on the door knob.

"We're okay, Catherine." My phone rings as I hear her car start up in the driveway. It's Lindsay, asking to be picked up from her sleepover. I'm grateful for the call, ready to have some one on one time with her. It will be a happy distraction from the darkness of the case and the dichotomy that is Sara.


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!**

 **Thank you all so much for the review(s) and the continued interest! You're the best!**

* * *

The weekend passes too quickly, like always. My time with Lindsay is precious, as it seems more of late that she'd rather hang with her friends than me. I remember being that age, wanting nothing to do with my mom. I knew everything and everyone, and had the type of fun I hope Lindsay is smart enough to stay away from. I watch her get on the bus before lying down to catch a few more hours of sleep before shift. I hate Mondays.

I arrive early, hoping to get a head start on some paperwork and see if there are any developments in the case, any hot line tips - anything at all. There's a folder on my desk from Greg, simply labeled 'results'. I tear it open, my heart leaping into my throat before crashing violently to my stomach. No matches in CODIS. I throw the contents across the desk and storm out of my office. I'm not surprised to see that Sara's already here too, in her usual lab in the back of the building. I push through the door, my heavy footsteps landing on the linoleum floor causing angry echoes to bounce off the walls.

"Guess you read the report from CODIS too." Sara's voice is flat, her eyes never leaving the computer screen she's glued to.

"This bastard is nailing us to the wall. We've got nothing on him."

"We have the fiber."

"That we can't compare to anything." I pace back and forth through the room, running my hands through my hair. I don't like to be bested, and I don't like to lose, especially when lives are at stake.

"Nobody can hide forever." Her words seem pointed, and I circle around the lab to stand behind her. There are numerous boxes on the floor, to the right of her, hidden from view behind a table.

"What are you doing?"

"Scouring ViCAP for anything similar to what our guy's been up to."

"And the boxes?"

"Brought them up from storage. Was gonna do the same thing with them." I take a second to look the brunette over, noting the shadows around her eyes, the drawn look to her face. She's probably been here for hours.

"I'll start with them," I say, picking up a musty box and settling in next to her. The work is monotonous and slow, and all I have to show after the first box are three new paper cuts. I'm about to grab a second when Gil pokes his head in the door. His expression is somber, and both of us know what he's about to say before the words leave his mouth. There's another body.

* * *

The landscape is chaos. News vans and police vehicles surround the local waste management facility. Lights are flashing and voices are squawking through the air like a murder of crows. Sara and I push our way through the dense crowd, finding the lead detective a few yards from the body, behind some yellow tape.

"She's all yours. Coroner's already here waiting for transport when you're done." He leaves us to speak with the men who found the body. I don't expect much, and minus the change in location, the scene is identical to the previous two. We collect what we can, working oddly in tandem for us, both silent amid the cacophony. This guy is escalating fast, and we're the only voice these women have, the burden weighing heavy on our shoulders.

When we get back to the lab, Sara opts out of meeting with Doc Robbins, electing instead to sort through what we got from the crime scene. I don't push her to accompany me. Doc tells me nothing I couldn't guess, except for the burn marks on the victim's shoulder. There are seven this time. I take pictures of the marks and the fiber from the victim's throat to drop off with Greg. It doesn't take a genius to know there will be two sets of DNA on the yarn. If nothing else, this guy is consistent.

I spread the photos of the burn marks from all three victims on my desk, looking for the whole picture. I rearrange them, shuffling them this way and that, but nothing jumps out at me. He's telling a story. There's a narrative somewhere in the violence, a tragedy written in blood, and I don't understand. The placement of the marks and the stab wounds seem so random, but everything else about this case is anything but. The bodies were meant to be found. They're all well off young women. There are always fifteen stab wounds. There are always burns. What am I missing?

I look at the clock hanging above the door, realizing I've been in here for hours. It's time to go home, get some rest, come back with fresh eyes and a clear head. I look for Sara before I leave, hoping she has some insight I don't, but her lab is empty. I find Greg who tells me she left a little while ago. It's odd, her leaving on time, but I don't question it. She's already close to being maxed out on overtime this month.

* * *

My car is hot and sticky from the Vegas sun, and I decide I need something cold to combat it, driving to a local watering hole near the lab. The dim light of the lounge makes me blink, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the smoky atmosphere. Being so early in the day, the place is fairly empty, mind the few regulars scattered along the row of bar stools. I'm about to sit down and order when a familiar voice carries over the sounds of sportscasters and weathermen from the TVs lining the walls.

Sara is sitting at the end of the bar, arguing with the bartender, who appears to be fed up with her. As I get closer, I hear him saying he's going to call the cops to have her removed.

"Excuse me," I search the guy's shirt, finding his name embroidered in the left corner, "Tom, is it?" His head snaps in my direction, exasperation carved into his features. Sara turns as well, her unfocused eyes registering surprise at seeing me.

"In a minute, lady. I can only deal with one mess at a time." I quell the urge to pick a fight with him, needing to get Sara out of here quickly, and put on a sympathetic face.

"I'm real sorry she's giving you a hard time. Got away from me." I move to her side, giving him my best flirty smile.

"Imfine," Sara mumbles, her words sticking together. Tom eyes us up, phone still in his hands.

"She owes me ten."

"Dontoweyounothin," Sara slurs as she tries to stand, losing her balance and falling into me. I snake my left arm under her shoulders, stabilizing her lanky frame, and use my right arm to fish some money from my purse. I slap a twenty dollar bill on the bar, shooting Tom a dubious glance as I turn to leave, Sara hurling incomprehensible insults at him on the way out.

I get Sara into the passenger seat of my car and start driving to her house. I struggle to get her up the front porch steps, picking up her keys as they spill from her jacket pocket. We weave through her living room, and I try to place her gently onto the couch, but my arm is stuck in the tangle of her body, causing me to tumble to the cushions with her.

"Didntneedyourhelp."

"The hell you didn't. You're lucky I got there when I did. What's going on, Sara?"

"Nuthin." I sigh, knowing this conversation will have to be postponed. I attempt to stand, but she shifts her weight, effectively pinning me where I am, her head heavy in my lap. Her eyes fight to stay open, but lose the battle, and her breathing evens out, sleep enveloping her in its depths. She reeks of beer, but I discern a softer scent, like almonds and honey, emanating from her head. I move before I think, my fingers sliding through the thick, silken waves of her hair and softly caressing her cheek. I watch as she slumbers, her face peaceful and calm, her body relaxing even more under my touch. Something in me stirs, like an ache or a pang, scratching just below the surface, vying for my attention, but I tamp the feeling back into my chest.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps, and I turn, ready to pounce, when I see Liz standing in the archway of the room, a wistful look making its home in her eyes. I yank my hand away from Sara's sleeping form and wriggle out from my position on the couch, my cheeks red and heart racing like I've just been caught doing something I shouldn't.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Liz says, her voice chilly and formal. I feel like an intruder under her gaze, as if I've stepped into something unbeknownst to me. She heads for the kitchen, and I'm still for a second, not sure if I should follow, but I do. She makes me feel like I need to explain myself.

"I found her at a bar, drunk and about to be thrown out, so I brought her home." She doesn't look at me when she responds.

"You don't need to lie, Catherine." She spits my name out of her mouth like venom. I take a step forward, already on edge, when I notice the time on the microwave display.

"Look, I don't know what the issue is here, but I've got somewhere to be." I don't wait for a reply as I head for my car.

I'm home in time to see Lindsay off to school and for some not so subtle comments from my mother about parenting, like she was so wonderful. I ignore her, my bed calling to me like a lover, and I crawl on top, not bothering to change my clothes or get under the covers. I curl up on my side, catching a whiff of Sara's smell, still lingering on my fingers, and for the first time in weeks, I don't struggle to find sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Sorry about the length of this chapter! Had to make it a little shorter to work with the coming chapters. I promise the next few are longer! Thanks for sticking with me so far and for the continued support! It means a lot!**

* * *

My phone rings from somewhere in the room, my sleep crusted eyes scanning the bed for the electronic nuisance. I find it shoved under my pillows.

"Hmm?"

"I didn't mean to wake you. I'm...I'm outside." I snap awake, hurrying to change out of last night's clothes, now wrinkled and rumpled. Sara looks small and lost when I open the door, head down, eyes glued to the concrete steps. She extends her arm, handing me a cup of coffee, and I take it readily, inviting her in. She hesitates, seeming unsure of herself, so unlike the Sara I'm used to, but she follows me to the living room, and we sit on the couch, sipping our hot liquids, letting the silence fill the places where conversation would normally live.

I don't push her, letting her take the time she needs to tell me why she's here. I assume she wants to apologize for last night, and I can imagine it's hard for her to face me knowing that I saw her at a weak moment. She fidgets and plays with the lid on her cup, her eyes never leaving the floor.

"Thanks for last night." Her tiny voice barely registers in my ears.

"You're welcome." I know there's more, and I wait patiently for an explanation.

"Sorry about Liz. She said she was kinda rude to you." It's not what I was expecting, but I want to keep her talking.

"It's fine. I get why she was upset." Sara finally looks up, dark circles swallowing her eyes, tension etched into the lines of her face.

"You do?"

"She's in love with you." She sighs, her shoulders dropping, her body sinking further into my couch.

"I know."

"You don't love her." She shakes her head, confirming what I already know, and a tingle burns through my core. I ignore the nervousness creeping like molasses down my spine and change the topic. "But that's not what you're here to talk about." She bites her lip so hard I'm afraid she's going to draw blood and swallows the lump in her throat.

"I need to show you something." She stands, gaze locked on my face, searching for reassurance, understanding, and I nod, needing this, needing her to open up to me. Somehow, I know this is a turning point, the moment everything between us is put to the test, where we stand unflinching in our partnership or crumble under our own weight.

Slowly, Sara removes her shirt, eyes never leaving my own, allowing the garment to fall to the floor. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, a flush rising to my cheeks. I do my best to quiet the buzzing in my ears, the unconscious reaction my body seems to be having to her half naked form. My mind is spinning, too many thoughts slamming against my skull, making me dizzy and confused. I manage to speak, my words labored as I force them from my mouth.

"I don't understand." She turns, her back facing me, and when she sits down, I see it. On the back of her left shoulder is a tattoo, varying sizes of black stars connected by thin lines. My breath catches in my throat, an audible gasp echoing around us. Instinctively, I reach out, my fingertips landing gently on her skin, and she tenses immediately, trying to pull away from me, but I scoot forward to maintain the contact. I trace the shape, my hand trembling as I connect the dots. Her skin is hot and smooth under my touch, and the intimacy of my actions surprises us both. My fingers idle on her back, caught in the moment like a fly in a web, and neither of us moves, afraid to admit what this revelation means.

"Pegasus." The word tip toes from my lips in a whisper, causing Sara to swivel and face me, breaking the contact of my skin on hers.

"How'd you know?" Confusion masks her usually calm demeanor, coupled with something I've never seen in her before - utter fear.

"Lindsay had a project this semester on constellations." I'm stunned, the synapses in my brain firing at speeds I can't keep up with, overloading rational thought and speech. Millions of question swarm like bees in my head and waves of emotions crash against my chest, causing my body to hum like a tuning fork.

"Cath?" Her voice brings me back, and I notice her shirt is on again.

"Why?" It's not the inquiry I wanted, but it's all I can muster.

"What do you know about Greek mythology?" I shrug, my mind coming up blank. Sara takes a deep breath and steadies herself, her hands in her lap, wringing the hem of her shirt between them. "According to legend, Medusa was once a beautiful maiden, adored by all. One day, while she was in Athena's temple, Poseidon, being a God and not used to taking no for an answer, raped her." She pauses, whether for effect or to gather her thoughts I don't know, but I'm captivated by her words. "At seeing this, Athena became enraged and punished Medusa, cursing her to live as a hideous monster. So, when Perseus showed up later to slay the Gorgon Medusa, neither of them were aware that the attack by Poseidon had left her pregnant. Immediately after her head was cut off and her blood spilled to the floor, Pegasus sprang forth from the wound in her neck."

It's not a happy story. It's the kind of dark tale that makes your insides lurch forward a little, the morale cloaked in twisted reasons and long since abandoned beliefs, but I get it. It's enchanting in its own way, just like Sara.

"Something beautiful and majestic born from evil, rising above it all, becoming more than the sum of its parts." She stares at me, wide eyed, irises glistening with moisture that never dares to fall. I feel the shift happen between us, the invisible wires that get hooked into us as people, as we share and as we grow, tethering us to others in subtle, delicate ways.

My moment of clarity is sharply interrupted when the puzzle pieces in my head begin to click, weaving together to form a twisted tapestry of violence and death. The cafe. The waste facility. The hoarder's property. They're all within a mile of Sara's house. A cold sweat begins to cover my body, and I shiver at its unwelcome arrival. There are fifteen stars on Sara's shoulder. Fifteen total burn marks on the victims. Always fifteen stab wounds. Finally, I see the whole picture, and I feel sick to my stomach.

"It's about you." The words feel broken and sharp as they cross my lips, and I can tell by her uneasy expression that she figured out days ago what I just realized.

She's next.


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Hey! So...the confusion with Liz should be cleared up soon, but I can't promise it won't lead to a little more...o.O Thank you for continuing to read and for giving feedback, though! Always means a lot!**

* * *

My house is quiet and empty, save for Sara and I, sitting across from each other on the couch. The emptiness swallows us whole and spits us out, the taste of our nightmare thick on its tongue.

"Do you know who it is?"

"It could be anyone who knows about my tattoo, I guess. I didn't think anyone would ever..." A fresh tide of emotions rushes through my core as she trails off, and I can't help but wonder how many people have traced the stars on her back, known her skin, the welcoming softness it holds. I shake away the thoughts.

"We have to get you some kind of protective detail."

"I, uh, called Grissom before I came over here. There will be an unmarked watching my house and another following me at all times." I turn from her to hide the disappointment at her words. I should have known I wouldn't be the first person she came to. I take a few deep breaths, reigning in the swell of feelings swirling like a hurricane in my body. I feel as if I've lost my footing in our exchange, and I can't put my finger on why. Anger swiftly replaces my confusion, something I'm familiar with, and I run with it.

"How long have you known?"

"Since the last victim. The burn marks - I...I didn't want it to be true." I must look like a mad woman, pacing frantically around my living room. Sara watches me from the couch, following my motions with worried eyes.

"Well, it is true. And three women are dead." The words fly like bullets, aimed at her chest, and she flinches visibly, as if struck.

"I know."

"You should have said something sooner."

"I know."

"If you couldn't trust me, you could've at least told Gil." She stands, her body shaking, and puts herself in my way, stopping me in mid stride.

"I get it! I fucked up! Don't you think that's been killing me?!" Her voice is almost a yell, matching my own pitch.

"I wouldn't know! You never tell me anything! You never let me get close enough to know _you_!" I take a step forward, my face inches from her own, our breath mingling together in the air between us.

"Maybe I don't want you to know me!" It's my turn to look struck as her words hit me, a freight train running through my gut. I refuse to let her hurt me, even though I feel sick, even though it feels like I've lost something I never had to begin with. I wonder why we always end up here, together but apart, swapping barbs until we bleed, and I step back from Sara. The distance is as metaphorical as it is literal, and when I find her gaze, I see a kaleidoscope of emotions filtering through her eyes. I don't know what she feels. I don't know what I feel.

"Well, it sounds like you have everything figured out. I have some things I need to do, so if there's nothing else."

"Cath, I didn't mean that. I just-"

"It's fine, Sara."

"Really, I was just angry. I-" I can't talk anymore. My mouth is dry. My head is pounding. I cut her off again.

"Sara. It's fine. Please." She turns angrily and stomps out of my house, the door slamming shut behind her, shaking the glass in the frame, shaking the pictures on the walls, shaking me.

* * *

I meet with Gil when I get to work, who tells me Sara's been taken off the case. She's too close. She shouldn't even be here, but I'm guessing she wouldn't stay home. I can't say I could sit around and do nothing either, just waiting for some psychopath to show up at my door. He gives me a list she made of people who have knowledge of her tattoo and people she's close to. Looking it over, I feel a strange sense of relief at the fact that it's not very long, but it's sad to see her life on paper, so few connections. I imagine how lonely her life has been, everything she's gone through, and I feel a new headache creeping along my forehead.

I spend most of the shift tracking down the eight names on Sara's list, which is actually fairly easy. The first six are all ex lovers - four women and two men. I don't miss the preference. None of them live in or near Vegas, and they all seem to have solid alibis, corroborated by bosses or friends and receipts. I request surveillance footage from the places that have it, but that will take a day or two. I call the second to last name, a Thomas Arnold, and get no response, so I leave a message and put a star by his name to check out later. It's the last name that makes me pause: Elizabeth Anderson. I know it's Liz. Liz with the bouncing, blonde curls and an apparent dislike for me. Liz who knows about Sara's tattoo. She's probably seen it, touched it, kissed all fifteen stars like she was catching them from the sky.

Sara and I have been ignoring each other all night, and I don't mind. The wounds are fresh, trying to heal, and we'd only tear the scabs. I'm not sure there's any point in trying to fix the damage we've caused anyway. If she doesn't want me to know her, doesn't want to know me, then there's nothing left. So, I'm surprised when I see her shadow cross my window, stopping at my door. I wait for the knock, for a paper slipped under the crack, but nothing comes. She passes after a few seconds, probably on her way out for the day. My eyes shift from the list in my hands to the door, and I can't help myself. Like magnets, my feet pull me towards the now empty spot in the hallway. I suddenly feel uneasy, like something in my world has shifted, like some important part of the machine has stopped working, and I survey my surroundings, looking for the culprit as if it were a person or some tangible matter. I try to eschew the sensation and head for the parking lot.

I'm aware as soon as I open the doors that something is wrong. A car alarm is blaring to my left and tires squeal from somewhere in the distance. I squint against the abrasive sunlight and search the area for the earsplitting sound, my stomach rising in my throat with each step I take. I know who's car it is, before I reach it. Somehow, I knew before I set foot outside that it was her.

The driver's side door of Sara's Tahoe is hanging open, the keys dangling from the ignition. She must have hit the alarm button in an attempt to get someone's attention. There's blood dripping down the inside of the door, splattered on the seat and running board, and her phone is smashed on the asphalt, bits of plastic and metal littering the ground.

"Ms. Willows?" The voice of the day shift security guard makes me jump.

"Get Grissom. Now." He looks the scene over quickly before rushing into the building. Bile burns at the back of my throat, and I make it to the bushes lining the building just as my stomach rejects its contents. Gil's hand on my shoulder does nothing to comfort me, and my eyes are red when I turn to face him.

"She's gone."


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Hope everyone out there is doing well! Have a good week and happy reading! Thanks again for all the support and feedback! : )**

* * *

"How the hell did this happen? I thought there was supposed to be a detail watching her. Where were they?" Gil studies me as I pace around his cramped office, shelves full of fetal pigs and preserved insects lining every wall. All I seem to do lately is pace, back and forth, trying to walk off whatever I'm feeling. It has yet to work.

"Sara left before they could arrive. They were going to follow her home." I pick up speed, already wearing a distinct pattern into his floor.

"We have to find her. We have to get out there. We have to do something."

"Nick and Warrick are processing her car as fast as they can, we've got techs looking at the security camera footage, and Brass is assigning every able body available to this case. We're doing everything we can, Cath. But I do have this." He holds up a small piece of folded white paper in an evidence bag.

"What's that?" My curiosity peaked, I finally take a seat opposite him.

"A note. Left for us by whoever took Sara. It was on the passenger seat. It's been processed. Take a look." I gingerly accept the bag, opening it with trembling fingers. I stare at the scrawl in heavy, black ink with confusion. It appears to be just a jumble of random letters made to look like words.

"Is this some kind of puzzle?"

"A cryptogram, I believe."

"Like those games in the Sunday paper?"

"Exactly like those games, except this isn't a famous quote. It's a message from our killer." My fingers feel cold and stiff, and I lay the paper back on his desk. My mind splinters, half flailing like a helpless child, drowning in shallow waters. The other half becomes quiet, calculating, sifting through facts and words. I need to control my emotions, get myself back to a place where I can help, where I'm in control.

"I'm scared, Gil." I confess it like a sin, the shaky words escaping my mouth before I know what I'm saying. I'm supposed to be more put together than this. I should be out in the parking lot with Nick and Warrick, but just the thought makes my stomach churn. He studies me, like one of his bugs, like he can see through me to my muscle and bone, see the secrets in my blood, and I want to take the words back. Chew them. Swallow them. Digest them.

"All emotion is involuntary when genuine." I feel his words rather than hear them, the consonants and vowels sliding across my skin, winding through my hair. Realizations burst in my head, little bubbles popping like corn in the microwave. I stand, too overwhelmed to analyze the feelings percolating in my veins and force myself back to logic, to something concrete.

"That one of yours?" He shakes his head.

"Twain." I feel like if you cracked Gil's head open to peer inside, there would be little filing cabinets filled with quotes for every occasion.

"Can you work on the puzzle? There's someone I need to talk to."

"I'll keep you updated." I step into the hallway before his voice makes me turn.

"Catherine?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

In my office, I check my messages, dismayed that Mr. Arnold failed to return my call. I dial the number I have for him again, this time leaving a voice mail that is clipped and urgent. Before I walk out, I call Brass and give him the guy's number and all the information I was able to pull up on him. Maybe he'll have more luck than me.

The parking lot is unnervingly calm, as if someone wasn't just plucked from under our noses, her life hinging on the evidence, on us to interpret it. Her Tahoe is gone, towed to the garage for further inspection, and the space left behind is empty and cavernous, a hole waiting to swallow me. It mocks me like a schoolyard bully, and I peel out of the lot, burning rubber. Whoever took Sara better pray I don't find them.

* * *

Liz is on the front porch when I pull up to Sara's house. She flies into the driveway, eyes crazy with worry, clutching a phone to her chest.

"Where's Sara? Is she okay? Did something happen?" She's bordering on hysterical, and I don't want to have this conversation in the front yard.

"Would you mind if we went inside to talk?" She turns in a huff, and I follow her into the house, taking a seat opposite her in the living room. She seems unglued, ready to crack if pushed too hard.

"What's going on, Catherine?" Her shaky voice reminds me of my own a few hours ago, the words brittle with fear.

"Sara's been kidnapped." Her face drains of all color, and she sways forward, the uneven weight distribution threatening to topple her over the edge of the couch. I jump up, reaching out to steady her. My actions seem to cut through her daze, and she pulls back from me, a response I'm all too familiar with.

"Why didn't anyone call me?"

"No one knew to." She looks crushed, her body sinking into the cushions of the couch. "I need to ask you some questions." Her eyes harden, defiance forming like storm clouds around her irises.

"You can't possibly think I had anything to do with this."

"It will help to clear you as a suspect. Besides, if you're not involved, you shouldn't mind."

"Fine." She crosses her arms over chest.

"Where were you this morning around 7?"

"In court." I raise an eyebrow. She notices but doesn't elaborate, and I know this is going to be like pulling teeth.

"For what?"

"A case." I take a few breaths. I can't let her rattle me. I have to keep my cool, or she'll shut me out.

"I know this is hard, but you have to work with me here. I'm just trying to find Sara."

"If you want to find her, you should be looking somewhere else. I wouldn't hurt her. I'd never..." Her voice breaks, tears running down her face. I feel bad for her, and we sit in silence for so long it seems like she forgot I was even here.

"Liz?" Her head snaps to me, her tear stained cheeks angry and red.

"I'm a lawyer. I was in court for a case our Nevada offices are handling."

"You were there all morning?"

"Yes. I called Sara before court started and she didn't respond, which wasn't out of the ordinary and again around 10. When we broke for lunch around noon, and I still hadn't gotten a reply, I started to worry. When I called that time, her phone went straight to voice mail, and I knew something was wrong, so I rushed here. Everything looked fine, but she wasn't home. So, I waited. I was about to go to your building, but then you showed up here."

"You said Nevada offices, not my office. Do you not live here?" She shifts, rearranging to sit up straighter.

"No. I live in San Francisco."

"So, how long have you known Sara?" She shifts again, obviously growing uncomfortable.

"A decade." She clears her throat. "But we really haven't been that close for the past five years." That's around the time Sara came to Vegas.

"A falling out?" She swallows, somehow looking nervous and angry at the same time.

"Sara never mentioned me, did she?" I think back, trying to recall anything Sara might have said about her life in San Francisco but draw a blank. Sara doesn't reveal much to me, but for someone that's been in her life for ten years, it does seem odd that she never came up in conversation.

"No. Should she have?" At this, Liz uncrosses her arms and leans forward, elbows on her knees, head resting in her hands.

"I'm not just here on a case for my firm. The real reason I came to Vegas was to talk to Sara, try to repair our damage, get back to where we were before she left, but she obviously doesn't want me in her life anymore. I should have just signed the damn papers." A wave of nausea washes over me, and I stare at the woman in front of me, the realization coming painfully slow. I manage to choke out a word, my timbre now matching that of Liz's voice.

"Papers?"

"Divorce papers. I'm her wife."


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Thanks so much for the review(s) and the continued interest! Always means a lot! I'm glad you're enjoying, and I hope you all continue to! :)**

* * *

We stare at each other, Liz's eyes somehow seeming more green, her curls bouncier, her face more beautiful. I see what Sara saw in her, and tinges of viridian blur my vision. The jealousy catches me off guard, and I bite my tongue to keep careless words from spewing forth. Why would Sara keep this a secret? Why are they still married? Why, why, why? I have more questions than answers, and I regret coming here, eviscerating Liz and myself, Sara's reluctance to open up keeping us both in the dark. I had more things to ask, but I don't remember them now, my mind foggy like four a.m.

My cell rings, slicing our thick tension into confetti, pieces falling around us in sad celebration.

"Willows."

"I figured out the puzzle." My heart starts beating in double time as I end the call, and I gather myself to stand, feet itching to put pedal to the floor.

"I have to go. Someone will probably want to speak with you more later."

"Was that about Sara? Did they find her?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't say." Her face scrunches in anger.

"Not even to her wife?" She uses the word like a dagger, stabbing me to see if I'll cry out, see if I'll bleed. She thinks she can spar with me, but I brought a gun to the knife fight.

"You're not listed as her wife on any paperwork in our office. In fact, you're not listed as anything anywhere." My remarks have the desired effect, and Liz backs down, defeated and broken, tears once again making their home in her eyes. I leave before they have a chance to fall, before they break my resolve.

* * *

Gil is in his office when I barge in, the blinds on the door rattling against glass as it slams shut.

"What does it say?" His gaze shifts from my wind blown hair to the clock behind me on the wall, and I don't tell him I almost caused two accidents on my way here. I don't tell him about Sara's secrets. I don't tell him it feels like there are screams trapped inside my chest, climbing up my ribs, vicious, little explorers looking for exit.

"He who has a golden sword." Confusion settles in while I rack my brain for something similar, something I can grasp, something that will make me understand.

"What?" His look mirrors my own, and I can tell he was expecting some revelation from me, for me to come to the same conclusion he already has.

"Sara said she was going to tell you about the significance of her tattoo to the case."

"She did. You even gave me the list she made of people to get in touch with who had knowledge of it. Remember?" His confusion seems to deepen while my impatience grows like ivy up my limbs.

"The puzzle is a reference to Chrysaor. Technically, the literal meaning of his name."

"What the hell are you talking about? Just spell it out, Gil. We don't have time for this."

"Chrysaor is the brother of Pegasus, both born when Perseus beheaded Medusa." Even with her life at stake, Sara still couldn't bring herself to let me in the whole way, stopping me at the lobby, giving me just enough information to make me feel like I was included and leaving out the rest.

"She has a brother?"

"A foster brother."

"Are they close?"

"I don't know, but I think he was on that list." I can't help but feel like I'm an outsider, face pressed up against the glass of Sara's life, watching everyone else come and go like they belong. I wonder again why I try so damn hard, why I care so much, but the voice in the back of my head knows. It knows things I can't admit. It knows the answers to questions I can't ask.

The ringing of my phone saves me for the second time today, and the caller ID tells me it's Brass. His timing couldn't be better.

"Please tell me you have something good."

"Thomas Arnold. Thirty-seven years old. Now going by Thomas Yates, he legally changed his name when he turned eighteen. In and out of foster care from the age of six on in the Golden State. Resided there until three months ago when he moved to Vegas. Currently works at a little bar right around the corner from the lab." I almost drop the phone. The son of a bitch has been toying with us right under our noses, serving us drinks: Tom the bartender. How did Sara not notice him?

"This is our guy, Jim."

"I'll send a team out to the home address we have on file, and I'll meet you at..." I hear him shuffling through papers.

"The Lucky Star." The coincidence isn't lost on me, and I highly doubt his choice of employer was random. Everything with him is calculated, planned out, weighted with purpose. He probably shit his psychotic pants when he realized there was a place with that name so close to where Sara works.

"Right." I end the call and stand to leave, turning to Gil when I don't hear him follow suit.

"You coming?" He seems nervous, like he's afraid of what we'll find. I don't blame him. I know there are feelings for Sara hidden underneath his mask of reason and logic. They are feelings that go beyond friendship, feelings that, according to Sara, will remain trapped in little jars, just like the bugs he loves.

"You go. I'll tell Nick and Warrick to call Brass and meet up with you." I open my mouth to protest but just nod. This isn't the time to pick him apart or put him under the microscope to see where the scientist ends and the man begins. I need to find Sara, and I need to find her now.

* * *

There are only two cars in the parking lot of the bar, and Brass isn't here yet. I fidget in my seat, surveying the area around me, noting the lack of activity. I know I should wait, but the adrenaline pounds through my limbs, tribal drums beating beneath my skin, and I head for the front door. I twist the knob and find resistance, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand shock straight, and I finger the smooth surface of my service weapon. The cool metal gives me the illusion of safety, the false belief that bullets can stop anything, that guns always protect.

I swallow the uneasiness sitting on my tongue and think of Sara tied up somewhere, locked in a basement, stuffed in a trunk. I can't - I won't let her die. If getting inside this building can save her life, I don't care about protocol. All I see in my head is her face, the slight crinkle at the corners of her mouth when she smiles, her lips parted in laughter, her eyes staring back at me - chocolate, brown pools I could swim in for days.

I draw the firearm from my side, raising it in front of me as I cautiously work my way around the building to the back, calling out as I round the corner, my voice shrill as I run my finger over the trigger. There are two dumpsters placed in an 'L' shape, one full of food waste and various packaging, the other full of bottles and cans. The yeasty smell of beer baking in the sun stings my nose, and I'm just about to reach for the knob on the back door when I feel a blow to the left side of my face.

Pain ricochets through my head and down my neck, and I swivel to face my assailant, gun aimed, when another blow lands on the right side of my head, the force knocking me to the ground, my knees scraping against hot asphalt. I hear my pistol slide under one of the two dumpsters as my eyes start to blur, stars dotting my peripheral vision. No, no, no! This can't be happening. I need to find Sara. I need to save her, bring her home. I need to tell her.

I force my legs to stand, my knees wobbly and unstable, my hands scratching at the wall for leverage, the rough brick chafing my palms. I can only discern the outline of a man, standing in front of me as my field of vision begins to dim.

"Who the fu-" A fist connects with my stomach, and I hear laughter ringing through the air, a deranged melody that echoes in my ears, chills bouncing off my vertebrae like xylophone beats. I crumple like a rag doll, an unwanted plaything, and I see flashes of pictures like movie reels in my mind. I see Sara's tattoo, my fingertips following the lines, connecting the stars. I see us having breakfast, her toast uneaten and cold. I see her head resting in my lap, my hands weaving through her hair. I smell the almond and honey of her shampoo. I try to hold on to them, but they swirl away from me as my mind grows darker.

Strong arms lift me from the earth, and Sara's name escapes my lips, a whisper of a word, stolen by the wind like it was nothing more than a piece of dust. I wince as I'm tossed against hard metal, and an engine roars to life, the smell of diesel fumes clogging my dwindling senses. The last thing I hear are police sirens in the distance as my world fades to black.


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **You guys are the best! Seriously. Thank you so much for the feedback and continued interest! I'm having a lot of fun writing this story, and I'm so glad you're all enjoying the journey with me. Posting this just a little early, because I'll be down for a little while next week due to some minor surgery. Buuut, if I have some extra time, I may put up another chapter later this weekend, 'cause I'll feel bad if I can't next week. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _I'm riding a dark chestnut mare through open fields. I rise and fall in time with her steady gait, my arms wrapped around her strong neck, the hairs of her mane tickling my face. The sun is a brilliant chartreuse, warming my skin and washing me in delicate rays as the wind kisses my cheeks. I can smell the grass and the trees. I can hear the babbling of a nearby brook as it meanders lazily through thick woods. The peaceful landscape suddenly turns dark, clouds rumbling through the sky in a race to cover the light. The mare bucks as thunder booms around us, catapulting me from the safety of her withers and back. I land on hard earth, my legs and arms bent like broken twigs, and I cry out into the empty air, the gathering storm silencing my pleas as it releases its wrath in curtains of rain and hail. I hear voices in the lightning, angry voices growing louder with each strike of their electric fingers._

 _"Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP."_

* * *

My eyes snap open, the harsh light of fluorescent bulbs shining too brightly, too close to my face. I wince as pain blazes through my body, every muscle howling in protest as I try to sit up, try to acclimate myself to my surroundings. The room is cement from the walls to the floor, gray and covered in a thin layer of smooth dust. Two lights hang from the ceiling, one flickering every few seconds like a scene from a horror movie, the other burnt out and broken, remnants of shattered glass fragments littering the floor. There are no windows, only two doors, facing each other from across the room, two eyes staring at me like watchdogs.

As my irises adjust to the dank space, I start to notice large areas of the concrete that are stained, pools of dried blood that were poorly cleaned, now brown and rusty in appearance. This is where the bastard killed, the primary crime scene, and I'm in the middle of it all. How many screams bounced off these walls? How many tears were absorbed by the cold concrete? How many women died where I'm sitting? Chills slink across my back, and I imagine the dead reaching out through the veil, calling for justice, and my heart breaks for them.

I use the wall for leverage, pulling myself to a standing position, and my head spins, pinpricks of light dotting my vision. The room swims around me, and I fight the nausea that ebbs and flows from my stomach to my throat. I hear footsteps from somewhere, heavy boots slapping against concrete as they get closer. One of the doors opens behind me, and I turn to see who it is.

"Ah, sleeping beauty finally woke up." I recognize him immediately, a sneer curling his worm like lips as he steps farther into the room.

"Fuck you." My speech sounds slurred, and I'm sure I have a concussion from the earlier blows, but I steel myself for a fight. I won't go down without giving it my all. He can take my life, but he can't take my dignity. He can't take my soul.

"Aren't we a sassy one?" He bridges the distance between us, close enough for me to smell his breath, see the whites of his eyes, and he raises his hand, the back of his palm searing hot flames on my cheek. "Didn't anyone ever tell you to keep your mouth shut if you don't have anything nice to say?" I taste blood, and my ears start ringing, alarm bells screeching like banshees. At this rate, I'm going to be unconscious in minutes. I have to keep him talking, keep him distracted.

"Where's Sara?" He tilts his head to the side, his sneer turning into a full blown grin, and he looks utterly deranged, the hinges of his fragile mind ready to splinter like ice.

"All in good time, kitty cat." I swallow the vitriol threatening to erupt from my mouth and take a deep breath, grimacing as pain ripples through my chest.

"Came right to me. Followed her scent, didn't you?" His eyes shimmer with things he couldn't possibly have knowledge of, things I'm just starting to learn. He rattles my confidence, and he knows it.

"Shut up." His smile makes me queasy, the burn at the back of my throat rising with every word he speaks.

"She's under your skin, isn't she? Does she make you purr?" My jaw clenches and my fists ball, anger bubbling out through my pores, and I try to remain solid, keep myself from being impetuous.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hitting nerves, am I? Just like Lizzy did this morning?" I can't help the surprise from rippling across my face.

"You were following me."

"I needed to make sure you took the bait."

"Sara." He nods, excitement obvious in his eyes, his voice, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, bouncing with crazed glee.

"And now, now you'll get to see my work firsthand. How lucky you must feel." He stretches his arms out, motioning to the space before wrapping them around his torso, hugging himself maniacally, his eyes awash with pride.

"You call what you do 'work'?" His voice lowers an octave, and his smile disappears, eaten by the hatred oozing across his face.

"Don't get smart with me, kitten. My work is necessary. I balance the scales. I collect the dues."

"I thought justice was supposed to be blind." He doubles over in laughter, the eerie sound filling the room and landing on my body like hundreds of spiders crawling across my skin.

"There is no justice. Only circumstance. That's why I started my work. I educate the ignorant and show them the truth."

"You show them _your_ truth."

"It's the _only_ truth, kitten. You'll see." He taps me on the nose with his forefinger before leaving, and I try to shake off his touch, but my muscles spasm, barely able to keep holding me up as my strength dwindles. I think of Lindsay, her smiling face, nights spent awake when she was sick, days spent laughing without care. I clutch at the memories, using them to bolster my resolve and finding comfort in their clarity. I barter silently with the gods - if I make it out alive, if I can save Sara, if I don't make it home. Each prayer is a request for salvation, offering up what little I have to save the ones I love, to protect them from pain.

I think again of the women who died in this room before me, sending up prayers of their own, their words falling on deaf ears. No god saved them. No god spared mercy for their broken bodies. Why should I be any different? Maybe Hell has an address. Maybe it exists on Earth, in places like this, in rooms with no windows and blood stained floors, in people like Thomas Arnold. Maybe Heaven is what you make it, the life you build, the people you surround yourself with, the love you give - and receive.

I don't know how long he's been gone. Time doesn't exist in these four walls, reticent witnesses to the atrocities they harbor. I want to melt into them, squeeze into their cracks and live in the ether, but I have to stay awake. I have to stay alert and ready. Even though my body is failing me, I can't let my mind falter. I have to do something, anything. I hear the footsteps again, feel his evil closing in on me, a darkness that holds tight and won't let go. Doors open and close from outside the room, and muffled voices seem to be arguing in the distance. He has someone else with him.

The door closest to me bangs open, the metal frame slamming against concrete, the sound deafening in the small space.

"Move." For a few seconds there is no sound, and then a figure stumbles through the opening, falling to the floor, soiled hands stopping the descent before face meets cement. My heart starts pounding, the beats reverberating through my chest, pushing blood through veins, causing the wounds on my body throb.

"Sara?" My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, like it's from a different person, miles away, full of static and garbled. I step forward, my balance off kilter and my vision blurry. A head turns, and Sara's bloody face looks back at me, her cheeks swollen and cut open, her nose broken and twisted. Thomas enters behind her using his foot to kick the door closed.

"Well, ladies, as they say: the gang's all here!"


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Well, the best laid plans and all… Continuing thanks to all who are reading and enjoying! Thank you!**

* * *

Sara stares at me, surprise and confusion swirling in her eyes, waves of anger covering the emotions when Thomas speaks.

"Stand up."

He watches her struggle, her knees weak and shaky, her breaths coming out ragged and wet. I want to scream. I want to rip his fucking head off. He grows tired of waiting and grabs her wrist, yanking upwards, and I can hear the bones in her shoulder grinding together before they pop and dislocate. She doesn't make a sound. Her face is stone and gravel, feeling disappearing somewhere within her strong shell, and her eyes stay fixed on my own. I feel if we keep the contact, somehow we're stronger than him, tethered by invisible forces, keeping each other upright. In reality, it's all we have.

"I believe you two have met." He laughs to himself, amused by his own insanity, tears forming at the corners of his eyes before he wipes them away. I find it strange that something as vile as him still has the capacity. His laughter rumbles through the small room, and he doesn't seem at all concerned about the fact that neither Sara or myself are restrained in any way. He seems to trust that my injuries will keep me incapacitated, but he trusts Sara on a different level, a deeper level.

"Why is she here, Tommy?" Her voice is hoarse, and she grimaces when she speaks, her arm instinctively raising and crossing her abdomen, holding in the pain.

"She's yours." Her eyes flit between him and me, and I can see her mind trying to focus through the fog. I'm surprised she's even standing. She looks worse than me, her thin body covered in angry bruises and dried blood, her frame swaying like she was in the ocean, a tortured mermaid bobbing in the sea.

"What do you mean?" Thomas starts to become agitated, pacing in small circles, his hands gesturing wildly as he speaks, and I notice the butt of Sara's service weapon sticking out of the back of his jeans.

"You, you, you, still don't get it! We talked about this, little sister. I told you the time would come. The reckoning is upon us, and you are the decider!" He whips around suddenly, his steps changing direction towards me. "Did she tell you? Did she tell you what she did?" I search for Sara's eyes, seeking an answer, and find a blank stare. Her demeanor changes, her head hanging lower, her back slouching down further.

"Tell me what?" He throws his hands up and makes an odd noise, something between a cry and a growl.

"She's full of secrets, you know. Full of lies. I had to follow little Lizzy all the way here just to find her again. She left me. She left me. SHE. LEFT. ME. THERE." Both Sara and I start at the mention of Liz, and I wait for her to say something, to interrupt his ramblings, but she stays silent.

"Where did she leave you, Thomas?" Every time I breathe, it hurts. Every word I speak feels like glass cutting through my chest, but I have to buy us some time. I need him off balance. I need Sara to snap out of it. I need her help.

"She's a smart one. Tricky too. Tricky, tricky. Left for college. So early. So quickly. Couldn't wait to get away. Couldn't wait." His babbling becomes more crazed, his movements jerky and uneven. He turns to Sara. "You said you'd come back for me! You promised! You didn't even recognize me! YOU DIDN'T SEE ME!" His voice breaks along with her resolve, and tears form in the corner of her eyes, salty drops of guilt waiting to splash to the ground. He exits without warning, letting the door slam shut behind him, leaving Sara and I alone.

We stare at each other, the gravity of our situation pulling us down to the concrete, through the hard earth, past rocks and shale, deep into the center of horror. I have so many things I want to say, words that seem trivial but necessary, words that I want her to hear in case we don't make it out of this room. I open my mouth to let them loose, let them fill the space with something other than madness and fear, but they die on my tongue, corpses of my confessions leaking bitterness on my taste buds.

"He has a gun." She nods, seeming to struggle with words herself, her lips twitching, searching for verbs and nouns.

"I'm sorry." I can barely hear her, but my heart feels like it's shattering all the same, shards breaking off and shooting through my arteries, clogging up my blood. She's taking responsibility for Thomas's actions, turning them into her burden, shouldering the psychopathy like it was her own. I step forward, wanting to comfort her, assure her none of this is her fault, but the door bangs open, and I retreat back to the wall.

Thomas enters with what appears to be a small blanket or towel held reverently in his open hands. My brain starts ticking, sending signals across neurons slowly, my ability to process information diminishing by the minutes. The recognition comes slowly, and I see the same awareness dawn on Sara's face: the fabric is wool. My pulse quickens, knowing we're reaching the end of what time we have left. If he sticks to his preferred methods, we'll both be dead before anyone can find us.

He stops in front of Sara, laying the bundle at her feet and unfolding its layers to reveal a gold dagger swathed in its woolen softness like a child. He steps back, looking at her expectantly, and he reminds me of a dog waiting for praise.

"It's time, little sister."

"For what?" He stomps his foot, annoyance building in his bones.

"To show her the truth."

"What truth, Tommy?" He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the room, to the beyond.

"My truth. Your truth. Our truth. Show her where we came from. Show her what made us."

"No." Her defiance is a slap to his face, astonishment clearly visible in his wild eyes.

"But you have to. You have to be reborn from the blood. We...we both do."

"I won't do it." The last of what was holding him together disintegrates, the ashes of reality descending around us, dead stars in a dystopian wasteland.

"Pick it up, Sara." She holds fast, not moving an inch, not breaking eye contact with him. "Pick. It. Up."

"No." He pulls the gun from the waistband of his jeans, playing his trump card, and points it at her chest.

"PICK IT UP!" All I can do is watch as her battered body lowers shakily to grasp the hilt of the knife, and she finds my gaze on her way back up, locking us together again. We both know this is the end. If she doesn't kill me, he will, and he'll probably kill her too.

Sara walks towards me, his gun trained on her back, her features coated with guilt and shame, and I finally let myself feel everything I've been suppressing, all the emotions I've been putting into little boxes and hiding out of sight. They rise in my being, dividing and multiplying until they fill up every space inside me, every nook and cranny of muscle and bone, and I break down. I weep for the moments lost I can never get back. I weep for Lindsay, my precious girl, my innocent angel. I weep for the chances I never took, the opportunities I'll never get. I weep for Sara, now only inches from me, tears of her own glistening on her blood stained cheeks. How do you tell someone you're falling in love with them when you're about to die?

I reach out to her, covering the hand holding the dagger with my own. Her skin is warm and inviting despite where we are, despite what's been done to her, and I run my thumb over her knuckles, memorizing the ridges, the bumps and grooves of her bones. The world withers around us, preserving us in this moment, holding us outside of time, and I feel safe with her. Over her shoulder, I see Thomas lower the gun, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"What - what are you doing?" Sara starts to turn, but I put pressure on my grip, squeezing her hand, keeping her eyes on my face, keeping her with me. She asks me questions without words, and I try to answer her silence, convey everything I feel, everything I'm thinking through a touch, with a look. I need her to understand. I need her to let me past her walls. I pull the dagger towards myself, feeling her resistance, her strength greater than mine, her determination holding steady in the mire. I lift my leg, anchoring it behind her knee and pushing in, the action forcing her forward, her free arm extending, smacking on cold concrete to stop the motion, and her body falls into me, her ear next to my mouth.

"Trust me." She pulls back as Thomas advances, the gun at his side, his voice irate.

"What the FUCK are you doing? KILL HER!" Sara tenses, inching back to put more distance between us and finding my eyes. Seconds morph into hours, and she relaxes her grip as Thomas's angry face hurtles into my peripheral. His hands fly into the air, and he's screaming, but I can't hear the words. I twist my wrist, Sara's hand steadying me, and I shove the blade into his chest.


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **As always, thank you for the review(s) and the interest! It really means a lot! : )**

* * *

Everything is frozen. Droplets of blood dangle in the air. Breaths turn white and crack in front of mouths. Muscles stutter then seize. All I know is Sara's face, her lips, the curve of her chin. We are forever in this infinite space, loved by death, trapped by madness. Her eyes are stars, and I want to tell her I see constellations in chaos moving slow across her skies, held up by gravity's brother, positioned by ancient gods.

Sound comes hurtling through my atmosphere, sudden and violent as its vibrations knock me from my daze, sending me back into orbit without warning. Time speeds up, crashing against me with urgent force. Sara nods, and we both pull back, the dagger sliding out from Thomas's chest in one smooth movement. Blood spills from the wound, spattering on my face and clothes, a macabre baptism, resurrecting me from the edge.

"YOU FUCKING BITCH! I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!" His words jar my senses, and I attempt to lunge at him, but Sara puts herself in front of me, using an arm to push me away. I stumble to the floor as Thomas clubs Sara on the side of her face with the butt of the gun, her already broken nose cracking on impact. She seems stunned, weaving as she tries to walk, her arms raising in an effort to balance herself. He watches her trip and stagger, blood dripping from his mouth as he smiles.

"Now, we're all gonna die, little sister. You'll show her what you're made of yet. You'll prove you're nothing more than your mother's daughter." His words are wet and sticky with blood, and they send Sara into a rage, her limbs akimbo as she rushes him, reaching for the gun still in his hand, a strangled cry escaping her lungs. She makes contact, her fingers wrapping around his in a struggle to wrestle the weapon away. He uses his free arm to punch her in the shoulder, and she screams, her left arm going limp as she kicks out, trying to trip him. He stumbles and the gun discharges, blowing out the only working light and plunging us into pitch black.

I yell out her name, the darkness, the lack of her face causing panic to spread through me like sickness. I hear them grappling through the room, hear labored breaths and grunts, the scraping of shoes on cement, the chilling sound of Thomas's bubbling laughter. I scoot along the floor, following the wall until I find a corner and make myself as small as possible. Trying to help now would only hinder our situation. I feel impotent and scared, and each breath seems harder to take. My eyelids feel heavier with each blink. My heart seems to slow with each beat.

Another gunshot rings out, and Sara howls from somewhere in the dark, her voice hitting my gut like a leaden fist. Fresh tears form in my eyes, and I call out again, her name leaving my mouth in the form of a plea. If I had the choice, I'd give it all up, throw everything else to the wayside just to keep her alive, keep her lips from turning blue, keep the blood in her veins from seeping into the floor and mingling with that of the women who died before her, lost souls imprisoned in concrete.

Silence fills the small space, heavy breathing breaking through in clips and pieces. I'm glued to the corner, unable to stand or speak, fear holding me fast against the wall, my injuries starting to outweigh the adrenaline in my system. I hear a cough, then soft murmurs, whispers floating through the air like seeds off a dandelion.

"...and I never will be. You're not my brother. You never were." Something snaps and there's a groan before a third shot rips across the atmosphere. A fourth shot. A fifth shot. Then footsteps, slow and stiff as they lumber around the room, getting closer. I run my hands along the floor desperately hoping to run over a piece of broken glass, but all I find is dust. I take off a shoe, gripping it as hard as I can. It's my only weapon, my only chance. The steps stop only inches from me, and I use the hesitation to my advantage, lashing out into the gloom, cursing as my arms slice into empty space.

"Cat, it's me." The sound of her voice breaks me, and I sob, the tears salty as they wash down my cheeks, getting stuck in the corners of my nose and mouth.

"I thought he - I thought you..."

"Shh. It's okay." I hear a sharp intake of breath as she attempts to sit next to me on the floor, and I reach out to her in the dark, trying to steady her, help her lower to the ground with some ease. I crawl around to her right side and curl up next her, needing to feel her breathing, smell her skin, assure myself this isn't some trauma induced hallucination, some terrible dream. To my surprise, she wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I drape my legs over her own sideways, fitting us together, two grisly puzzle pieces.

We lie together in quiet, neither of us quite sure what to say, how to make the next move, all too aware that we're dying. Her hand begins to stroke my hair, the gentle motion calming the stormy seas of my mind, and I relax into her, my head resting in the crook of her neck.

"I'm so sorry, Cat. This is all my fault." I raise my head to look at her, my eyes having adjusted to the blackness, but I can't quite make out the features of her face, my mind filling them in from memory.

"No, it's not. None of this is your fault."

"If I would have kept my promise, if I would have noticed him...maybe I could have stopped all this."

"Don't do that. Nothing would have stopped him. He was insane, Sara." Her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks next, her words timid and shaky.

"Do you think he was right?"

"About what?"

"About where I come from - what I am." Every organ and muscle in me feels like it's straining against my skin, and I hate Thomas even more than I thought I could. Sara's brave and thoughtful. Hard working and diligent. Loyal and kind. She's everything he wasn't and then some. My heroic protector. My savior. How she could think she's anything less is beyond me, and I want to tell her everything I feel, but I suddenly think of Liz, of the promises her and Sara share, the history they forged together. I think of our own history, our rocky past, the tension that follows us, sits heavy like smog above our heads.

I feel my body slowing down, feel my weight becoming too much to hold up, feel my muscles growing weak and feeble. If this is the end, I don't want to die with regrets. I don't want to wait for the right time if the right time will never come. I don't want my soul to leave this earth a tormented bundle of 'what ifs' and 'maybes'. If this is the end, I want my last breath to die in her lungs.

I use my hands to find her face, cupping her lacerated cheeks delicately in my palms. I run my thumb over her lips, tracing the soft lines and curves, hoping this moment will somehow burn into my soul, stay with me in the beyond. I lean forward and kiss her gently, the bitter taste of iron mixing with the sweetness of her skin. At first, she doesn't move. Her body goes still and she appears to stop breathing, my actions seemingly catching her off guard. I'm about to pull away when her hand pushes with feather light pressure on the back of my head, keeping my lips on hers, stretching this moment to fill the darkness with its hope. It feels right, kissing her, like our mouths were meant to find each other, like our hearts were meant to beat in time, two instruments playing the same song.

We separate, our breath becoming one in the small space between us, our lungs exchanging notes like lovers. I shift my position, my hand sliding down her neck, coming to rest on her shoulder, and I feel the thick fabric of her shirt soaked in blood. She makes a small hissing noise, the pressure awakening the pain in her body.

"He shot you."

"It's fine."

"It doesn't feel fine."

"Just a flesh wound." I can hear the smile in her words, the attempt to downplay her injuries, and part of me knows our chances of making it out of this room alive are fading. With both of us weak and battered, all we can do is wait. Her fingers continue weaving through my hair, and I return my head to her chest, letting her heartbeat soothe the fires burning inside me. I try to fight the wall of exhaustion in front of me, but I fail. My muscles stop supporting my weight and my eyes close as I drift into unconsciousness. Sara's body next to mine is the last thing I feel before the unknown swallows me, and I realize I'm not afraid.


	13. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Thanks to everyone for continuing to keep reading! Hope all is well! :)**

* * *

I hear screaming, see bursts of color. People are talking, voices filtering in and out through the din. I feel hands on my body, fingers gripping my arms. There's chaos around me, beeping and blinking lights. Then nothing.

"SARA!" I lurch forward, pain jumping through my body from my head to my feet, playing hopscotch on my organs. I allow my blurry eyes to adjust to my surroundings, taking in the white walls, white floors, white sheets. I look to my left, reading the numbers on the monitoring equipment, noting my heart rate is elevated along with my pulse, the thin green lines turning to pointy peaks on the screen. The numbers start to lower as I stare at their green glow, taking shallow breaths to keep my chest from feeling like it's going to tear open. I follow the wires from the machine to my arms, running my hands along the tubes, watching the clear liquid drip into my veins.

My arms are covered in scratches and welts, criss-crossing each other, filling up space with their jagged lines. I lift the sheet to look at the rest of me, and see bruises coloring my flesh, a morbid tie dye pattern reaching from my legs to my shoulders. Every bone aches. Every muscle is strained and stretched. Everything hurts, and nothing feels right. I run my fingers over my face, rough scabs and tender skin grazing the tips as I feel my way across its asperous landscape.

Everything seems surreal, and I don't remember getting here, don't remember anything past falling asleep in Sara's arms, strong and protective, a shelter from the insane. Bits and pieces of time swirl through my mind, snippets of moments I can't place, flashes of memories that don't feel like my own. Someone clears their throat, and I turn to my right, unaware that I wasn't alone.

Gil sits in a blue plastic chair, a copy of this month's Journal of Forensics open on his lap, his glasses sitting precariously on the edge of his nose. The sight of him makes me smile.

"Hey." My voice is raw and weak, and I can still taste the last remnants of blood in my mouth. He closes the magazine and sits straighter, meeting my eyes with concern and relief in his own.

"You really should rest. The jolt probably wasn't good for your stitches." I look down, sliding my arm under my gown and feel the angry swelling of a fresh wound on my left side. I must have landed on a piece of glass during the struggle between Sara and Thomas. Funny how fear outweighs pain sometimes, how the emotional supersedes the physical. When I pull back, I don't see any blood on my fingers.

"Nice to see you too." He rises to stand next to the hospital bed, putting a hand on my upper back, steadying me as I lie down on the over starched sheets.

"You had us all worried." I'm not surprised he groups himself in with everyone else, keeping his personal feelings removed, far enough away from the surface that they don't hurt.

"Where's Lindsay?" I try to sit up again, but his hand rests on my arm, and his eyes send me a subtle warning.

"With your mother. They should be here soon." I relax a little, my muscles yelling at me, punishing me for trying to use them. The elephant in the room trumpets its presence, and anxiety creeps over me, the beeping on the monitor ticking up as I lay still. I want to know, need to know, but fear keeps me fixed in limbo, the ignorance better than learning the worst. I feel like a coward, and I blame it on the drugs pumping through my body, on the lingering effects of trauma, on anything but what it really is.

We share the silence that covers us like a blanket, hiding under its safety, both of us afraid to peek our heads out and face the world, accept what it's done to us, what it's done to her. I see people pass by the window in the door, doctors and nurses bustling by in white coats and patterned scrubs, relatives rushing to the sides of loved ones. The monitor continues beeping, keeping track of my heartbeats, unsteady and unsure.

"She's alive." I find Gil's hand and squeeze it, a silent thank you for answering the question I couldn't ask. I know there's more, that there's something he's not telling me. His face is cloudy and abstracted, the facts swirling together to form a picture I can't discern, but if she's alive, I feel like everything will be okay. If she's alive, I can breathe.

"Ms. Willows?" A head pops in through the door, followed by the body of a tall man with kind features and a silver clipboard under his arm. "I'm Dr. Griffin. I wanted to speak with you, if that was okay?" I squeeze Gil's hand again, letting him know that I'm alright, and he leaves with a nod.

"So, how bad is it?" Dr. Griffin smiles, a gentle smile he's probably perfected by years of patient interaction, but it puts me at ease.

"Not bad at all. From what I know of how you came to be with us, I'd say you're pretty lucky." I can't help but wonder how lucky Sara got, if she got lucky at all. "You presented with a mild concussion and a small pneumothorax when you arrived, which means just a small portion of your lung had collapsed. Numerous contusions and cuts, but only one requiring stitches. X-rays revealed no fractures or breaks, but you do have a couple bruised ribs it seems, right below the wound on your side."

"That's it?" I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a wheeze, my lungs seizing up and making me cough.

"That's it. I'd like for you to stay another few days though, to monitor your condition and run another chest x-ray or two. If everything seems good, you'd be free to go home Friday morning." The day means nothing to me, and I realize that I don't know how long I've been here, in and out of consciousness, doped up on painkillers and who knows what else.

"How long have I been here?"

"Just over twenty-four hours. You were given some medication to help calm you while we ran tests and stitched up your wound. You, uh, were a little aggressive with the staff." I try to remember specifics, but all I have are pieces of the puzzle - faces and sounds, my hands pulling at wires, my voice screaming for Sara.

"I was admitted with someone else. Is - is she okay?" His face darkens a shade, just like Gil's did, hiding something, keeping me out of the loop. He seems to be weighing his options, debating whether to tell me the truth or sugar coat the facts so they're easier to swallow.

"I can tell you she's stable, but without a proper release, I'm really not allowed to give any more information." Sensing my attempt to argue the point, he continues speaking, leaving the protest to die on my tongue. "Just get some rest, and I'll be back in to see you tomorrow, Ms. Willows." He hangs the clipboard on the end of the bed and leaves, my mind still crowded with questions, still trying to make sense of the sequence of events.

"Mom!" Lindsay bursts into the room, my mother following behind her, misty, red rimmed eyes sitting atop a grateful smile.

"Hey, baby." Her arms encircle me, and just the gentle pressure causes new pain to flood through my system, but her warmth feels like home. My mother steps to the other side of my bed, her hand finding my own and holding it tightly. We're all quiet - them too afraid to ask any questions and me unwilling to offer any answers. Their presence is comforting, though, and I tell them I love them a hundred times over. I tell them everything's okay. I tell them I can come home soon.

* * *

I wake around three in the morning. I refused the pain medication, because it makes me groggy, makes me feel dull, but as I raise myself up to sit, I start to regret it. Lindsay and my mother are fast asleep to my right, cuddled together on a cot the night staff brought in for them to use, both refusing to leave, vowing to lie all night on smooth, cold linoleum if necessary. I'd do the same if our positions were flipped. The Willows women don't give up and we don't give in.

I scoot to the left edge of the bed, dangling my legs over, letting my toes touch the cold floor first. Slowly, I add more weight, easing myself to a standing position. My calves and thighs stutter before they relax, shifting from shakiness to stiffness, and I take a few steps to loosen the muscles. I survey the drip bags, hanging from a rolling, metal cart, and I know I can either remove the IV in my arm or take the whole thing with me, but creeping through the halls at three in the morning with a bunch of tubes and wires attached to me is a bit more conspicuous than I'd like. I peel the tape from my skin and clench my teeth as I slide the catheter from my arm, using the corner of my hospital gown to wipe away the blood that drips from the tip.

I check to make sure Lindsay and my mother are still asleep, calling their names softly to see if they stir. They don't. I rummage through a bag they brought and pull out a pair of sweatpants and an over sized t-shirt, putting them on over my gown. The bathroom door is open in the room, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a shambles, greasy and unbrushed, tufts sticking out in all directions, and dark circles devour my eyes, matching the purple bruises on my cheeks. I look like some crazed escapee, making a break for it. At least I fit the part.


	14. Chapter 14

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Thanks to all for continuing to read and for the review(s)! As always, it means a lot!**

* * *

There's something unsettling about hospitals at night. I don't know if it's the eerie glow of fluorescent lights that seem to cast unnatural shadows that crawl along the white walls or the utter stillness of the building, like it's holding its breath, waiting until morning to exhale all the sickness back into the world. Either way, it gives me chills.

I spy on the two night nurses through the window of the door, waiting for the right time to slip past the desk that sits no more than thirty feet from my room. They're both older women, but I can tell which one's been here longer, her attitude more relaxed and nonchalant. She sips diet Pepsi from a stash of cans she has hidden somewhere behind the desk while flipping through a grocery store circular.

The younger of the two, though not by much, has a helmet of hair, almost mullet-like. Her severe face snaps up every time there's a noise or a creak, hawk-like eyes piercing her surroundings for anything out of place. They trade off doing rounds, walking through the halls, responding to patients and straggling relatives. Unless they're both gone at the same time, I don't have a chance.

My opportunity presents itself about an hour and a half into my stake out, the first dim slivers of light starting to peek over the horizon, the sun declaring its arrival. An alarm sounds from somewhere on the floor, both of them rising to rush to the source. I crack my door, peering around to make sure there's no one watching, and take a right. It's a place to start.

I pass room after room, catching glimpses of sickness and sadness, glancing into other people's lives in search of my own. I hear footsteps heading towards me, and I slip into the closest room, making myself flat against the wall and guiding the door closed with a minimal amount of sound. Whoever it was passes by in a flurry, and I exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding, relaxing enough to survey where I'm at.

I find myself in a smaller single room like my own with a wide eyed elderly man gawking at me from his bed. I let out a small gasp, surprise and embarrassment finding homes in my eyes. His feeble, underweight body is being swallowed by sheets and pillows, and I can see his bones through his skin, knobby and twisted like tree roots. His breath comes out in slow, tortured wheezes, his lungs rattling like maracas, and the smell of urine and decay slither through the air to sting my nostrils. I feel like I should say something, anything so he doesn't alert one of the nurses, but I can't stop staring at the life that seems to be seeping out of him by the second, leaking onto the floor, a busted pipe of mortality spewing death. Slowly, he raises his hand, placing a single finger against his crepe paper lips as they stretch into a small smile. I mouth a silent 'thank-you' before making sure the coast is clear and exit his room.

I resume my frantic search through corridors, nosing around corners and listening for sounds. I don't know if it's my foggy brain or if this hospital really is a maze, but I keep running into dead ends and supply closets, and as the sunlight grows brighter through the halls, shortening the shadows, I start to feel lost. Finally, I round a corner, the doors to the ICU glaring back at me, and my palms begin to sweat. It's the end of the line for the floor I'm on, the last area left unchecked, and I know if she's in there, it's worse than I thought.

I hear murmurs to my left and turn to see the last room before the ominous double doors with red letters and yellow warnings stuck to their heavy surface. A set of blinds is drawn from the inside, and I can't help myself from trying the knob, curiosity overcoming me. It gives easily, opening to darkness, the only glow emanating from beeping machines, green hues coating the room with their steady streams of data.

Sara's lying under a thin sheet, one arm resting at her side, cuts and bruises coating the exposed skin with their angry presence. Her other arm sits at a crooked angle, gauze and dressings wrapped around her shoulder and upper bicep. She's so still and quiet she could be a corpse, and I inch closer, carefully avoiding the tube that's sticking out of her chest like some Frankenstein-esque third appendage, gathering the courage to face her aftermath. I step tentatively around to the side of the bed, flashbacks of our shared horror clicking through my mind, and I reach out to take her hand, the one part of her that's free from any damage or abuse.

Electricity crackles along my skin at the touch, raising the hair on my arms, and her eyes dart under her lids like she knows I'm here, like she can sense my energy. I trace her fingers with my own, the feel of her warmth calming something in me, untangling the hardened knots of nerves that have been sitting like tumors in my gut. I brush away the errant strands of hair scattered across her face, leaning down to kiss her forehead, and her hand twitches, her fingers briefly squeezing mine.

For a moment, I imagine her waking, standing and laughing, taking me in her arms and assuring me that everything's okay, that she's okay, and we can leave this deathly hallow. I imagine her smiling as she steals a kiss, her eyes vibrant and teasing, her lips soft like silk and cream. In the stillness of this space, under the preternatural glimmer of machines, I admit to myself that I want this, that I want her, every part of her. I want her storms and her thunder. I want to burn with her under fire filled skies, passion searing our names into the sun. I want to radiate with her bathed in moonbeams, our waves learning to crash as one. I want to learn the meaning of forever with her.

The machines whir, and her pulse quickens for a second before it returns to normal, like an alarm bell warning me I've been here for too long to go unnoticed. Even in her unconscious state she's looking out for me, alerting me to the danger that is time as it speeds around us, taking whatever it likes. I rest her hand back at her side, reluctant to leave, my desire to curl up on the end of her bed so strong I have to force my feet to move, their weight more cumbersome with each step.

My hand is on the knob of the door when something out of the corner of my eye grabs my attention, something I missed on my way in here. On the only chair in the room, a black cardigan lays draped across the backrest, a small hint of white contrasting against the dark fabric. Hospitals are so sterile you can smell everything. Scents you wouldn't normally pick out, due to the overload of sensory perception in everyday life, become clear and strong, even the smallest redolence of fragrance becoming amplified over the dull constant of bleach.

So, when I approach the garment, I can smell Liz all over it. As if on cue, footfalls echo from outside the door, quick, precise steps growing closer as I stand still, hand outstretched to snatch the piece of paper from its waiting pocket. I move just as the latch releases, shoving the stolen treasure into my sweat pants.

"Catherine." I swivel to face her, praying I was quick enough to make a clean retrieval.

"Liz." She looks me over, cataloging my damage, comparing my wounds to Sara's. I know she feels like I shouldn't be standing, shouldn't be able to traipse around when Sara can't even move. Her judgment is silent, yet louder than I can stand, and fresh guilt rushes into my blood, replacing oxygen so all I breathe is shame. The room suddenly shrinks, too small to hold the three of us and all our secrets, and I brush past her through the doorway, hoping she won't follow, but she does.

"You should be in your own room." Her icy demeanor frosts over the whole hallway, and I wonder why the few people passing by aren't slipping as they walk, when I feel like I can't even find my footing. One of the nurses from the front desk glides by us, taking in my disheveled appearance, recognition flashing across her eyes. I think she's going to stop, chastise me for ripping out my IV and running amok through the wing, but she keeps going, never missing a step.

"You're right. I should be." We stare each other down, two broken women full of blame, holding on to hope so tight our knuckles are white.

"Why were you in her room? Haven't you hurt her enough?" Her words sting, and I take a step back, recognizing the venom in her, the scorpion's tail hovering above her head, ready to strike.

"Nobody would tell me what's going on. I just wanted to see her." Her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms, lashing out without moving an inch.

"Not so nice being on the outside, is it? Not knowing what's happening." She means to hit a nerve, to get me back for keeping her in the dark when Sara was taken, but she doesn't seem to know that's where I've been all along.

"If you think I was ever on the inside, I guess I wasn't the only stranger to Sara's life." She falters for a moment, uncomfortable with the truth, with the fact that we have something in common, but she recovers quickly, anger and righteousness masking her uncertainty.

"I assume you got what you came for?" There is no reasoning from this point on, no negotiating. For now, Liz holds all the power, and I can tell she's loving the opportunity, relishing the fact that she can cut me off at the knees. Her eyes morph into dark pools, shadowy and ominous, changing like seasons in front of me, and for the first time since I've met her, I feel uneasy.

"I guess I did." As I walk away, I feel the rift between her and I deepen, shifting to form a chasm of hostility, the tenuous civility we've attempted fraying with each interaction. It's only a matter of time before we bare our teeth, before our hunger turns to starvation and one of us strikes to kill.


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **It's been a bit of a rough week, and seeing the review(s) and interest that you all still have for my story makes me feel good that I can give at least a little joy to someone else. Thank you, as always!**

* * *

I'm distracted as I stalk back to my room, anger and confusion shaking hands with frustration in my head, a dangerous trio of friends meeting up for a bad time. I replay the back and forth with Liz, making mental notes of her body language, her subtle tics and fidgets. I pick her apart and put her back together, learning where the chinks in her armor lie, where the weaknesses flourish. I'm so lost in thought I don't notice the woman leaning against the wall when I turn a corner, and I run right into her.

"Might wanna slow it down, red. Ya almost spilled my drink." My cheeks flush, and I lower my head, disappointed at being caught. I can see the door to my room, almost feel its cold, metal handle. So close.

"Sorry. I - I know I shouldn't be out of bed." The nurse takes a swig of her diet Pepsi, and I look for her name tag, finding 'Loni' printed on its face in black letters.

"But ya were. And ya pulled your catheter for your IV line out, which I'll have to replace." I grimace at the thought of another needle, and she notices. "It won't be too bad. I'll have to use the back of your hand, though. We'll just say ya had a bad dream. Came out in all your tossing and turning." Her words surprise me. I was expecting a good tongue wagging, some stern lecture about protocol and patient procedure.

"Thanks. But why cover for me?" She pushes up from the wall, turning to rest her shoulder on its surface instead of her back and takes another swallow of soda.

"I was on shift when they brought ya both in. Ya don't remember much from that night, do ya?" My hands play with the hem of my t-shirt, small pin pricks of anxiety jagging their way up my arms. I remember the look on Thomas's face when I stabbed him. I remember gunshots cracking in the air around me. I remember blood and tears. I remember falling asleep in Sara's arms. After that, my memory fractures, moments of time missing between screams and thrashing, bright lights and sirens.

"No, just bits and pieces really. It's all a blur." She nods, working the tab of her soda can back and forth, wiggling it until it snaps off in her fingers.

"She wouldn't let go of ya." My eyes meet Loni's for the first time, and I notice the deep lines carving out her face, the heavy bags under eyes, years of hard living decorating her skin. Her hair is from another decade, feathered and poofy, something she's probably stuck with since the first time she got it styled. She's rough around the edges with a no nonsense attitude, but her eyes are kind and honest.

"What?"

"The other woman, the brunette. She wouldn't let the doctors take ya. Kept a death grip on your arms. Tried to kick anyone who got close. Then, ya came to yourself. Did the same damn thing. The two of ya sure made a scene, hollerin' and yellin'. Never saw two people more unwilling to be separated. And knowing what ya two went through, well, we all felt for ya. Bastard got what he deserved if ya ask me."

I'm not ready for this, not ready to talk about what Sara and I shared at the hands of a deranged madman. A deep hatred for Thomas bubbles up within me, a rolling boil of animosity burning me from the inside of my organs to the goose flesh starting to pimple my skin. I'll never forgive what he did to her - what he did to us.

"Ya okay, hun?" I look at Loni, who's staring at my hands, and I unclench my fists, my knuckles stiff and sore as I move my fingers, urging the blood to flow again.

"Yeah, yeah. Just a little tired, I guess." Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't question me, letting the lingering darkness in the hallway get eaten by the sun, now streaming in full rays from the windows, devouring the last of the night.

"Let's get ya back into bed." She hooks an arm around my own, steadying me as we walk to my room, and guides me onto the waiting mattress. She leaves for a minute, returning with needles in sterile packaging and packets of prep pads. She works swiftly, tearing things open, cleaning my skin, and I can't help but admire her precision, the ease with which she operates. She's probably done this a thousand times over, the task simply second nature to her now.

"All good," she says as she pats my arm, gathering the few scraps of trash and tossing them in a nearby waste can. "Ya just get some rest now." I'm inclined to leave it at that, let her walk out the door and ignore the million or so questions still teeming in my head, but I know I won't be able to relax without answers.

"Loni?"

"Yeah, hun?"

"What are some reasons someone would have a tube in their chest?" She looks uncomfortable, our exchange veering into territories I've been warned to stay away from, but I've never really been one to heed. She knows why I'm asking, what I'm after, and she decides to give me what no one else will.

"Well, if ya had a broken rib or two and one of those ribs punctured your lung, ya'd need to get rid of all the air that gets trapped inside your chest."

"How long would the tube need to be in for?" I can play this game.

"If the whole lung had collapsed, a couple of days, maybe even surgery if things didn't start to improve. But if it had only partially collapsed and was starting to heal, ya'd be in much better shape. I like the second option myself." Apparently, Loni can play this game too.

"And if you got shot in your shoulder, what kind of treatment would that require?" At this, she falters, her lips pursing before stretching into thin lines.

"Best case scenario would be a small wound with nothing hit but muscle, but if the bullet hit bone, ya'd need surgery to get all those pieces out, and some pieces might still be in ya. Ya'd probably have a broken arm and need some rehab after healing. If any nerves were damaged though, it might not ever be usable again, at least not like before, even with surgery. Only time would tell." I take in her words like rushing water, feeling them spill over me and out of me, letting them splash to the floor, and I drop the pretense.

"Does she know?" She shakes her head, not meeting my gaze.

"Somebody has to tell her, right? Isn't that a policy or something?" This is Sara's battle, not mine, but I feel indignant for her. I'd want to know what was wrong with me, the prognosis of my condition - my new limits. She would too.

"The wife asked us not to. Said she wanted to tell her. Thought it might be easier. But get some rest now. Sleep will do ya good." Loni exits with a small smile, and I can hear the sounds of the hospital growing louder from outside the room, staff slowly streaming in for changes of shifts, family members anxious for improvements, patients greeting the new day with renewed hope. The sun makes us all forget what lurks just beyond dusk, the thieving shadows of night waiting inside twilight to steal our confidence, to pick the pockets of our faith. I don't trust the dark, and I don't trust Liz.

I reach in my sweats and pull out the folded paper, straightening its creased lines. At the top of the note, in flowing gold type are four names followed by an address and phone numbers: Rawls, Hayes, Anderson, and Stein. It must be the law firm that Liz works for, and I don't miss that she's a partner. In the empty space below, all that's written are three numbers: 17 61 90. They look vaguely familiar, like a face from a dream, and I try to place them, running through birthdays and important dates, but nothing clicks.

I refold the paper, sliding it back in my sweats and wondering how long it will take Liz to notice its gone. She'll know it was me, sneaking around Sara's room like an alley cat, sticky paws taking what's not mine. I can't help but smile at the thought, my eyes closing slowly, my body succumbing to exhaustion.

My sleep is restless and my dreams feel like warnings, painted in reds, silent like old movies. I see Sara in front of me, and I run to her, my thighs burning as the distance between us seems to keep growing, stretching out to pull her farther away with every stride I take. I trip over my own feet, landing hard on the ground, and suddenly Liz is on top of me, her hands covering my mouth, burying my screams in her palms. Her eyes shimmer and flare, caustic emeralds burning me with their pernicious glow, and when she laughs, it's Thomas's voice that spills over her lips, dripping down her chin like thick blood.


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Ah! Two chapters in one weekend! I figured, why not? Enjoy!**

* * *

It's been three days since my late night excursion, three days since I learned that Sara's arm might never be usable again, at least not in any way that would allow her to continue working as a CSI. The knowledge sits heavy like bricks in my mind, and guilt never fails to follow my anger when I think about it, my own injuries paling in comparison. My life has been changed, but hers may have been taken from her. Her job is everything to her, her motivation, her passion, her reason. She was willing to die to save me, but I have nothing to give in return. I can't swap arms with her. I can't go back in time and make sure it was me that got shot. But I would. If I could.

I've tried to see her again, slipped out of my room during one of the brief solitary moments I have between visitors, between my mother and Lindsay watching me like hawks, swooping in to take care of anything I need or ask for, but Liz is always present. She's always sitting in the plastic chair, her cardigan wrapped around her shoulders, Sara's constant companion keeping the unwanted at bay. She caught me once, peeking in the window, and her eyes were tiny daggers, stabbing me through the glass pane, a silent warning to keep my distance. I know she doesn't want me around, doesn't want to risk the allowance of an interaction, afraid I'll swipe Sara out from underneath her - just like I did the note.

Loni enters my room, her hair disheveled from a long night, and the bags under her eyes droopy from tiredness.

"How ya doin', red?" She looks me over briefly, taking notes on a sheet of paper, marking down my vitals.

"Pretty good. Great, even. Better than I have all week. Can I go home now?" She laughs, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Well, it does look like they'll be sending ya on your way today, barring any unforeseen complications, but ya look real good. The doc will be in sometime this morning to go over some stuff with ya then." I smile so wide I fear my face might split in two, my desire to leave this edifice of infirmity and disease too great for words. Loni looks around as if she were searching for something. "No wardens this morning?"

"They just went to get some breakfast, but I know they'll be happy to get out of here too."

"I bet." She wavers momentarily, glancing between the door and myself, as if she's checking to make sure there's no one else about to enter.

"Is something wrong?" Her eyes dart around the room, lingering on the sun drenched window before meeting my worried gaze.

"I don't know if I should be sharing any of this with ya, but your friend, she asked about ya." My heart pounds and my lungs hold my waiting breath, too afraid to exhale.

"She did?" Loni nods, her words coming out quicker than before, rushed and low.

"Asked how ya were doing, if ya were okay. She...she said she had a dream about ya, just standing over her and talking."

"Did you - did you tell her it wasn't a dream? That I was there?" She fidgets, her knuckled fingers twirling the pen in her hands.

"Was I not supposed to, hun? I just thought since ya went through so much trouble to see her..." Relieved, I cut into her nervous rambling.

"No, no. It's fine, Loni. Really." She relaxes, easing her pen into the pocket of her scrubs and tucking the clipboard under her arm. At least she knows I tried, that I was there for her, no matter how brief the interaction.

"Ya two are some of the weirdest friends I've seen, if ya don't mind me saying." She has no idea.

"Yeah, yeah we are, I guess."

"Well, she's awake if ya want to see her before ya leave." I do. I want to hear her voice, feel its strong timbre as it washes over me. I want to wrap her in my arms, hold her tight to my chest and never let her go.

"Is her wife here?" Loni's head tilts to the side, something akin to realization skipping across her face.

"Nah, she's always gone for breakfast." My whole body is itching to move, but I stay still, acting like I'm not going to run out the door the second Loni leaves.

"Thank you for everything." She smiles, a genuine smile that reaches to her ears.

"No problem, hun. Ya take it easy, now. Don't wanna see ya back in here." I wait five minutes, five agonizingly long, painfully drawn out minutes, before I rush the door, my sock covered feet slipping on the smooth linoleum. In the light of day, the hallways don't seem as imposing as they did at night, but I know the ghosts are still here, still haunting the corridors, waiting patiently for dusk.

I hesitate outside Sara's room, watching her through the open blinds, her face scrunched up as she flips through television channels. The tube that was in her side is gone, and her bruises are beginning to heal, greenish borders bleeding into dark purple centers. Her left arm is nestled in a sling, thick gauze and wrappings covering her shoulder and upper arm. She reaches with her good arm for a cup of water sitting with the remainders of her breakfast, but it's just out of her range, and she winces as she leans back, frustration etched in lines on her forehead. My hand is on the knob when a voice halts my motions.

"I know you took it." Shit. Why is she always everywhere, breathing down my neck like a guard dog?

"So nice to see you too, Liz."

"I want it back." Her voice stays level, calm, like we're doing nothing more than talking about the weather, but her eyes are blazing infernos, scorching the ground between us.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." I feign innocence, unable to stop the tiniest of smirks from curling my lips and fight to maintain an even temper, or at least the semblance of one. She takes a step towards me, squaring her shoulders.

"Don't play coy with me, you little thief. I know who you are. I know what you want, and you're not going to get it." Her arrogance covers her like a second skin, and I don't know how I ever felt sorry for her, why I ever gave her the benefit of the doubt. I glance back at the room behind us, Sara's eyes meeting mine through glass, her lips parted in slight surprise.

"I don't really think that choice is yours to make." Liz watches us with apprehension, her energy swirling back and forth, hostility edging into fear and back again. I close the space between us, standing as tall as I can to meet her height. "I know you're hiding something, and I'm going to figure out what it is." I see her swallow, her nervousness a hard ball as it clinks down her throat.

"Catherine, dear? The doctor would like to see you, uh, when you're done." Both Liz and I start at the voice, my mother standing just feet from us.

"Okay. Be there in a minute." I take a last look at Liz, her vulnerability gone, shoved under her ego like a dirty secret, but I know I rattled her, shook loose some of her confidence. I don't risk turning to see Sara and the emotions that could be floating in her eyes. Liz can tell her whatever she wants. I just hope Sara doesn't believe it.

* * *

I sit with Lindsay in the back seat on the car ride home, her hand gripping my own as if she's afraid I'll get caught in a breeze and blow out the window. I can't blame her. My chosen career isn't a nine to five, desk oriented, paper pushing deal. There's no guarantee I'll come home on time. There's no guarantee I'll come home at all, but in this day and age, no one is safe. Every thing and everyone is a moving target, stuck in someone's cross hairs, their life a flame burning just to be snuffed out. It's my job to use science to make sure some of the evil in this world is held accountable for the damage it leaves in its wake. I squeeze her hand in return, assuring her that I'm alright, that for now, we're safe. It's all I can do.


	17. Chapter 17

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Sorry about the lateness! As always, thank you for the review(s) and for reading! I'll get the next chapter up as soon as I'm done! (Also, there are some conflicting views as to what the *actual* date is, so I just chose one. They all fall within five years, so yeah.)**

* * *

A week passes, slow and tediously, as I wander the rooms of my house in a restless fashion, cleaning what I can, organizing the clutter, being yelled at by mother for not relaxing. I can't stymie the itch in my bones, the nervous energy rippling under my skin like electric waves. I can't stop thinking about Sara.

I know there's something between us. I could feel it in her kiss, in her touch, in the way she looked at me through hospital glass. I wonder if I've ruined it by staying away, by allowing Liz to keep me removed and distant, but what other choice do I have? Strong arming my way in, causing a scene in the middle of a hospital, and having a verbal altercation with Liz are the last things Sara needs. Still, it burns me that this is my position, relegated to the outside again when I fought so hard to be a part of Sara's life. I'm just trying to do what's best for her, even if it hurts.

Gil keeps me updated, and the guys call almost every day, offering their time and anything else I could need. They don't mention that I haven't been to see Sara. They don't ask why. I'm grateful for their kindness, their unwavering support, and I'm proud to call them friends.

I yank my refrigerator door open, staring at its contents blankly, boredom driving me to forage for food. Eventually, I pick a yogurt, leaning against the kitchen table as I eat, and I look at all the random tchotchkes covering the fridge door. There are pictures of Lindsay through the years, drawings she's made, a mother's day card from years ago, her tiny hand print in paint when you open it. I've amassed an unusual amount of magnets from vacations and random gifts from my mother. Apparently, decorative magnets are the gift that keeps giving.

I take the calendar off the door and flip through it as I scrape the last of the yogurt from its cup, not wanting to miss any of the peachy goodness hiding at the bottom. I notice at least two appointments I missed last month, making a mental note to reschedule them, and an upcoming parent/teacher conference at Lindsay's school. I keep turning pages, some days filled in with pen scribbles, others with sticky notes affixed to their date, until I get to the end of the year. Something bugs me though, a nagging sensation like I missed an important date or forgot to mark something down. I reverse my order, starting with December and working my way back, and when I get to September, I almost drop my spoon.

I make a mad dash for the laundry room, calendar in tow as I throw clothes and towels over my shoulder, digging to the bottom of the dirty pile. My hand brushes against thick canvas, and I grip it tightly, pulling up to unearth the bag my mother brought to the hospital. I dump it on the floor, rifling through its contents for my sweatpants and extracting the crumpled note from a pocket like it was a precious metal. I flatten the paper, smoothing it out with the side of my palm, and place it next to the calendar.

September sixteenth has a star in its box, with a small annotation marking Sara's birthday. I have the birthdays of the whole team marked on the calendar, because Gil forgets them every year, so it falls on me to get a card and have everyone sign it or grab some cupcakes on my way in to work. It's just something small, but they all deserve the recognition and the celebration, so I make sure they get it.

I switch back and forth between the note and the calendar, making sure I'm not crazy, not seeing things just because I want them to be true. The numbers are all there, but even if I reverse their order, it's not perfect, it doesn't line up right. There has to be something, _this_ has to be something. Liz made a point of bringing it up, wanting it back in her artful hands. I take a deep breath, clearing my head and try to look at everything objectively, leaving my scattered thoughts to sit on the sidelines of my cerebrum, and I see it. It's backwards. If I read it left to right, it's 09-16-71. It's Sara's birthday.

Liz would know that, wouldn't need it written down, especially not backwards, so it has to be more than a reminder. Three digits. A code maybe? A password? A locker combination? Son of a bitch. None of this makes sense, but something inside me tells me not to let this go. I feel like I'm falling down the rabbit hole, lured in by the ghosts of fairy tales, the Jabberwock's claws at my back. I know what I have to do. I leave a note for my mother who's napping, letting her know I'll be back soon, not to worry, and that I have my cell. Then, I grab my keys and drive.

* * *

I circle the area twice, making sure no one is home, and I park a block and a half away in front of some shops. I purchase a baseball cap from a small sporting goods store and put it on outside, tossing the bag and keeping the receipt. Walking around the side of the building, I stop to pretend I'm on the phone until the sidewalk is empty, and I slip through an opening in the fence that runs along most of this block. It houses private parking areas for the apartment buildings and businesses in the neighborhood, and I try to look like I belong, meandering casually across the multiple lots.

When I get to the end of the fencing, I'm lucky enough to find another hole in the chain link, and I exit into a narrow alleyway that runs behind Sara's house, slinking into her backyard, grateful for the slightly overgrown vegetation that offers me some cover. I don't expect the backdoor to be open, but I try the knob anyways, feeling it stop me. I look around for an out of place rock or a hidden hole somewhere that might harbor a waiting key. Nothing.

I need to get in to the house or get out of here quickly before I draw attention to myself or before Liz decides to show up like she always seems to do. I survey the windows, the small roof overhang, following it above the door, which I notice has wide molding at the top. Using the railing on the steps to the backdoor, I climb up enough to run my hand along the surface, grazing cool metal in the middle. The key opens the lock with ease, and I hurry inside the house.

I cross through the small mud room to the living room, my head turning from left to right. There are two small hallways to either side of the room, both seeming large enough to have bedrooms at their ends, so I go left first, since it's closest. I pass by a bookcase, filled mostly with academic texts and periodicals, but there are a couple classics thrown in among the mix, and a few volumes of poetry, the spines weak and fraying from a love only books can know.

When I enter the first bedroom, I'm aware immediately that it's Sara's. The room is painted and decorated in neutral tones, beiges and tans, greys and off whites. It's modest, yet sophisticated, and I wonder what it would be like to wake up here, nestled in soft sheets, Sara's arms wrapped me as sun rays jump through the window, skipping across our exposed skin. Everything in here smells like her, feels like her. I can almost hear her voice echoing down the hallway.

Suddenly, I feel like an unwelcome trespasser. I need to leave her space. This isn't right. I broke her trust by sneaking in here, and now I'm violating her privacy. I didn't think this through. When it comes to her, I'm lost. I'm reckless and impulsive. It feels like I'm sixteen again, making bad decisions for all the right reasons, letting my heart lead me. It feels like I'm in love. I let the thought hang in the air, afraid to own it, afraid to accept what it means when I don't even know where Sara and I stand, afraid we were only a moment in time, fading like an old photograph. I leave my uncertainties to drift to the floor as I make my way to the other side of the house, opening the door to Liz's room.

She's been sleeping in what looks like a makeshift guest room, a lone twin bed in the middle of a home office, a desk and some filing cabinets occupying the otherwise empty walls. I search the space for anything that has a lock, or a keypad, something I can open with my stolen numbers, but I find nothing. I sift through the mound of clothes and shoes piled on the office chair, and I notice a brown, leather satchel sitting innocently under the desk, tops of papers peeking out from its depths. I sit down and begin combing through its contents.

The first few sheets I pull out are law related, and I toss them in a pile next to me, along with some random bills and invoices for clients, the amounts in the total lines more than my salary. Nobody ever said justice was free, I guess. I finger a thin, manila envelope, sliding the documents out with care. The top set of pages are copies of recent utility bills and receipts from grocery stores. The bottom set is a copy of a rental agreement, and I recognize the last name of the property owner as one of the names from the law office letterhead, Jonathan Rawls. His signature is on the last page along with two others: Thomas Arnold and Elizabeth Anderson.

My heart stops for a beat, and I forget to blink, reading the words over and over, trying to understand what this means, trying to fit the enormity of it into a manageable mass. I can't do this alone. I take out my phone, snapping pictures of everything as quickly as I can before I shove all the papers back in place. I make sure the room looks like it did when I entered, and I leave through the back door, returning the key to it's hidden home. I all but run back to my car, not feeling safe until I lock the doors, and I drive until I reach a familiar street, exiting my vehicle and knocking on the door of an apartment. It opens slowly, and I force myself to stay cohesive, level headed, so I don't crumble like I want to.

"I need your help."


	18. Chapter 18

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Hope everyone is doing well! As always, your interest in the story is appreciated so much! Thank you all for continuing to read! : )**

* * *

Gil sips tea as we sit in his living room, eyeing me suspiciously over the rim of his glasses. I'm sure I look as crazy as I sound, my hair messy and lumpy from the baseball cap, my body jittery from adrenaline, my words exiting my mouth like bullets in rapid fire conversation.

"You broke into her house?"

"It's not like I busted a window or anything. I mean, I used a key, but yeah." My guilt leaks out like gas, a slow hiss filling the room with its odorless vapor. He's not accusatory or pointing fingers, just gathering the facts, putting them all into neat little boxes in front of us, but still I feel like he's disappointed somehow. It's not what he would have done.

"You know we can't use anything you found." He takes another sip of tea, pushing his glasses up and crossing his legs.

"I know that. I just need to get into Thomas Arnold's apartment." He sets his cup down, his attention shifting completely from the earl grey to me, and I feel the tone of our interaction change.

"You haven't even given a formal statement yet about what happened."

"I know, I know. I'll do it, first thing in the morning, but right now I need-" So many things. I need my world to stop heaving through space, jerking me from side to side, from up to down. I need Gil to stop looking at me like I'm damaged and fragile to the touch. I need to talk to Sara, lay all my cards on the table and see if we're willing to ante up, place our bets on each other. I need to know why the hell Liz was co-signing a lease for a psychotic whack job she never mentioned knowing. Most of all, I need to feel like myself again, find my center in the confusion my life has become.

"Catherine?"

"Yeah, sorry."

"Are you sure you're okay?" No, but I have to be, if not for me, then for Sara.

"I'm fine, Gil." He doesn't believe me, but he lets it go for now.

"Let me see what you have." I hand him my phone, watching as he flips through the pictures, squinting as he pulls the device closer to his face. When he's done, he passes the phone back, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "When Warrick and Nick spoke to her, she didn't mention anything about this."

"Of course she didn't. She's connected to him, to this whole situation. I think she's the linchpin that ties everything together."

"What's her motive in all this?" I stand, unable to stifle my restless nerves, and pace along the length of his couch.

"I don't know exactly, but it has to do with Sara. It all comes back to her. The initial murders, Thomas, Liz. Everything is about Sara."

"Revenge?" I still for a moment, mid stride, and turn to face him.

"For what?"

"The divorce." He says it casually, but I've known him long enough to recognize the subtleties of his tones, the shadows in his eyes. He's hurting. We stare at each other, connected by what we know, divided by what we feel, and I skip over the part of the conversation that we should be having, letting the unasked and the unanswered linger like a fine mist above our heads.

"It wouldn't make sense. She told me she came here to try and salvage their relationship, and I don't think she was lying."

"She told us the same thing, and I believe her too."

"So, she's desperate. Clinging to a failing marriage. What does Thomas mean to her in the equation?" We're both silent, doing the math in our heads, arriving at the same conclusions. "We need to get into that apartment, Gil."

"I think you're right."

* * *

"I could've driven, you know." He peers at me out of the corner of his eye, keeping his attention focused on the road in front of us.

"You're not cleared for duty yet, Catherine. I shouldn't even be bringing you."

"Well, we would have been there ten minutes ago, and I'm the one who found new evidence."

"By illegally breaking and entering." I roll my eyes, grumbling under my breath.

"Still." I know I shouldn't push my luck, that he's breaking the rules, or at least bending their definitions to suit us, and I'm grateful for his help, for his trust in me. It isn't all for me, though. I know that too.

He turns onto a dimly lit road, the two working streetlights flickering randomly, illuminating the moths and gnats clamoring for their luminescence. Anxiety swells and breeds within my bones, nervous sweat collecting at the nape of my neck, and I take a deep breath, glancing at Gil, trying to force my body to believe that I'm safe. Thomas is dead. I'm okay.

The car stops next to a rundown apartment building, a few lights on in the dusty windows, the sounds of TV programs wafting by on the still, night air.

"Are you okay to do this?" The thought of being in Thomas's space, smelling his scent, touching his things - it makes me nauseous, hot acid scalding the back of my throat, but I need to do this. I need to know I'm stronger than the memory of his madness. I touch Gil's shoulder lightly, the concern on his face shadowed by thick clouds passing over the moon.

"I'm good, Gil. I have to do this." He nods, exiting the car. The building is old and not very well taken care of, dirty floors and even dirtier walls filling the inside with a pungent odor of sweat and mildew. It's a perfect place for a crazed killer to lurk under the radar, away from prying eyes and occupied by people who won't ask questions. Yellow crime scene tape still hangs across the door, and it seems fitting for the surroundings, a morbid decoration, the yellow matching the smoke stains on every visible area.

"The scene wasn't released yet?"

"Not until tomorrow, actually. Nick and Warrick spent hours in here gathering anything they could that seemed relevant." He pops the lock, holding the tape up for me as I duck under and enter what was Thomas's home. It's an unearthly feeling, standing among his furniture and books, his framed movie posters and vinyl records. Just like him, everything on the surface appears normal and regular, relaxed even.

"This isn't what I was expecting. This guy was nuttier than a three dollar bill. Where's all the crazy?"

"That would be down the hall. Second door on the right." Gil doesn't follow me, just stands where he is, taking in the room like he's never been here before, like he didn't spend hours processing the evidence. When I turn the doorknob, I know why he hung back, letting me discover this on my own.

All four walls are covered in pictures, every available space covered up by Sara's face, by my face. I gasp audibly, the shock of it making my head spin, the dizziness forcing me to the floor. The pictures go back at least three months, maybe more, lining up perfectly with him getting into town, with Liz arriving at Sara's door. It's one thing to know someone's been following you, it's another to see it, to see the trivial details of your life, the mundane everyday tasks plastered across a room, to see you staring back at yourself through a lens, through somebody else's eyes.

Gil leans against the door frame, arms folded across his chest.

"You alright, Cath?"

"Yeah, this is just…"

"I know. There's something else." He flicks the light switch and joins me on the floor, darkness swallowing the images of me and Sara. "Look up." I tilt my head back, looking at the ceiling. It's covered in those little, glow in the dark stars that kids love. Lindsay even had some in her bedroom for a while. We put them up together.

"He mapped out the sky."

"Well, not all of it, but yes. The bigger stars are-"

"Constellations." He nods, leaning back on his hands to fully appreciate the sight. Moments pass by slowly, like we forgot why we came here, both of us enraptured by the haunting beauty of the green stars and their ephemeral glow.

"You haven't visited Sara." He says it as if he's noting the weather, off hand and unassuming, no judgment, just a fact. His gaze never wavers from the stars.

"I've, uh, been busy. You know, Lindsay's busy with so many activities and projects, and my house is such a mess. If we're not shuttling her somewhere, we're cleaning up after her. I mean, my mom's great and all, but the woman knows how to get on your nerves. Always-" He interrupts my ramblings like only he can, our years of friendship making it easy to spot the bull.

"Catherine." I sigh.

"I know. It's just complicated right now."

"When is it ever not?"

"She killed her brother to save us, to save me, and now she might never be able to work again. She sacrificed everything. How do I repay that? How do you thank someone for giving up their life for yours?"

"She made her own choices. She did what she had to so she could wake up every day and be okay with the outcome. I don't think she regrets that, and I don't think she feels like you owe her anything."

"You've talked to her about this, haven't you?"

"It might've come up in passing." I nudge him playfully with my elbow, the ease of our interaction making me feel as if I've regained a piece of what I lost in that room with Thomas, a piece of myself.

"I'll go see her." I think of Liz, her eyes green like the wicked witch of the west, boring into me, sending her monkeys to tear me apart. I don't bring up her not so subtle warnings to stay away. I don't bring up the moments Sara and I shared, waiting to die or for help to arrive, whichever came first. Somehow, I think he already knows.

His phone rings, breaking the bubble around us, and he stands to take the call.

"Grissom." His expression becomes flat, and he leaves the room, his voice trailing off as he gets farther away. I stand myself, wiping the back of my legs with my hands, feeling like I have pieces of Thomas sticking to me, little dust mites full of his energy attached to my clothes. I take a step forward and a soft creak whispers through the quiet of the room, sneaking out from beneath my foot as a floor board shifts under my weight.

I squat down, pressing on the wooden plank to see if it will pop up on its own. It doesn't. I look around the room, spotting a lone pen cap in a dusty corner, and I use it to jimmy the board loose. Through the opening, a black safe stares back at me, the door hanging open on its hinges, the empty inside pillaged of its contents. I lean closer to the floor and a thick, musty smell mixed with gun oil permeates the area, but there's something subtle mingled in with the aromas, a scent I know better than I'd like.

"We have a problem." Gil stands in the doorway, his forehead creased in concern, his phone still in his hand. I rise from my position quickly, fresh anxiety settling in my chest, as he stares at me.

"Well? What is it?"

"Jonathan Rawls was just found dead from an apparent gun shot wound, and Elizabeth Anderson is missing."

"I don't think she's missing." His brows furrow together as confusion washes over his features.

"What do you mean?" I point to the hole in the floor and the wooden board lying next to me.

"I think she was here, took whatever was in this safe, and fled."


	19. Chapter 19

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Thanks to all for sticking with me! I seem to have gotten off schedule a little bit with my updates, but I'm gonna keep 'em coming! Hope all is well with everyone! : )**

* * *

We drive in silence for a few minutes, Gil's thoughts louder than he knows, battling with my own in the enclosed vehicle.

"So, her car was at the scene?" He nods, squinting against the bright headlights passing us by in the dark. "And there was blood on the seat?" He nods again, his fingers gripping the wheel tighter.

"I can't take you with me." I don't fight him. He's already stretched himself farther than he's comfortable with, made choices he'll have to answer for later on my behalf.

"So, where are you taking me?"

"The hospital."

"What?"

"Someone needs to tell Sara what's happening."

"Give her a call, then. Send Warrick or Nick. Hell, send Greg." He sighs, and I can feel his exasperation like rays from the sun, heating the air as they travel through space.

"She needs a friend."

"They are her friends."

"She needs you." His words leave my mouth empty, and I don't say anything else until we pull up outside the large building, full of broken hope and sickness. I open the car door, one foot on the asphalt when I turn to him.

"Here." Digging in my pocket, I pull out the now crumpled and creased paper from my pocket, laying it on the seat.

"What's this?"

"I'd bet my next paycheck that it's the combination for the safe at Thomas's apartment." He nods, not bothering to question where I obtained my information, and I shut the car door, resting a hand on the window opening. "Why'd you help me out tonight, Gil? Honestly, I expected you to give me some speech about evidence and letting the team handle things." He's still and quiet, like he didn't hear me, and I'm about to repeat myself when he answers.

"You asked." It's simple and honest, and I realize under the yellow glare of parking lot lights that he's the best friend I've ever had. We may have differences of opinion from time to time, but he's always got my back. He's always the first to come to bat, to take the hits meant for me. There are things we need to talk about, a conversation he's entitled to, questions he deserves to have answered, and I promise myself I'll take him to dinner when our lives aren't so haphazard, when my world feels safe again.

"Hey, how am I supposed to get home? My car's at your place." A tiny ghost of a grin graces his lips.

"You'll figure it out, I'm sure." I watch him drive away, aware he did this on purpose, stranding me on my own, just outside my comfort zone, forcing me to face the truths I've been hiding from. I inhale deeply, the sweet aroma of night filling my senses, and I tell myself everything is going to be okay.

* * *

I hesitate outside her room, summoning whatever courage I can find before I walk through the door, knowing this won't be easy. As soon as she hears the handle click, she looks up, locking eyes with me, and a flash of anger hovers in her gaze before dissipating into deep brown.

I don't know where to start, what to do, what to say. My heart is racing. My palms are sweating. I don't understand why they call them butterflies, because it feels more like elephants in my stomach, heavy and wild, shaking me from the inside out, rumbling through my core. I fidget nervously while she watches me, following me with her stare as I move to the end of her bed, deciding to stand instead of sit.

"Hey."

"Hello."

"You, uh, you look good."

"You look better." She keeps her voice even and flat, but there's an edge to her words, making me think she's not just throwing out compliments. She's pissed.

"I'm sorry I haven't been here. I wanted to, but-"

"It's fine. You have your own life." My chest starts to tighten, the stitches in my side stinging as I breathe.

"It's not fine. I should have come to see you. I'm sorry, Sara." Her face seems to soften somewhat with my words, my usual pride falling to the wayside as my apology lands at her feet. I want this to be okay, for us to be okay. I need it.

"Why now?" I want to tell her that I miss seeing her face, that without the sound of her voice, my world seems emptier, my stars seem dimmer, but if it wasn't for Gil, I wouldn't be standing in front of her right now. I'd be practicing my cowardice at home, having this conversation in my head instead of with her. All the words I can't give life to loiter at the back of my throat, scratching at my windpipe.

"Liz is missing" It's not what I wanted to say, but it's the safe option, the one that keeps me removed from the hurt in her eyes, keeps me focused on something other than my heart slamming against my rib cage.

"She's not missing." Her words are hard and heavy, slathered in anger.

"What?"

"We had a fight yesterday morning. She left. She'll be back."

"She's disappeared before?" Sara looks away, turning her face from me as she speaks, guarding the emotions hiding in her features.

"When things get too messy, she runs. When things don't go her way, she runs. It's always been one of our issues." I struggle with how to proceed, and my mind flips to investigator mode, slipping back into something comfortable, something I know I'm good at.

"How long does it usually take her to resurface?" Sara's head swivels around slowly to meet my gaze, small slivers of apprehension creeping along her face, and she speaks slower than usual.

"A few days, maybe. Depends on how bad things were."

"Has she ever been violent?" Anger returns to her eyes, flashing like electrical sparks.

"Is she a suspect in something? Is this an interrogation? What the hell is going on?" Dammit. This isn't how I wanted this to go. I tell her what little I know, the few details Gil shared with me, and I watch as her anger turns to worry. I omit the earlier events of the evening - breaking into her house, finding the lease agreement, going to Thomas's apartment. She needs to know, but now doesn't seem like the time. Why pile more on her already overflowing plate?

"I'm sorry, Sara." It seems apologies are all I'm made of tonight.

"Why? It's not your fault." Her walls spring back up, defensiveness and cool ire permeating the spaces where progress was blooming. I can see us evaporating, our glass emptier than before, particles of us drifting into the atmosphere like we never were. I could give her the argument she's pushing for. I could leave, burn the possibilities before they have an opportunity to grow. Or I could fight for the chances. And I want this. God, I want this. I step around to the side of the bed, and I see her tense, try to pull away, but I don't let it deter me.

"Look, I know everything is a mess right now, but I don't want to be what we were. It'd be easy to let the past trap us, to let it define what we could be, but I know there's more. I feel it when you look at me. I feel it when I look at you. I felt it in that room, when you-" The door behind me opens, and a young doctor enters, extending his hand in my direction.  
"Ladies! So glad to have caught you both. Nice to finally meet you, Ms. Anderson, I'm Dr. Percy. Seems we're always missing each other, doesn't it?" I glance at Sara for help, waiting for her to correct him, but she stays mum, and I'd swear there was the tiniest of smiles playing across her lips. I shake the offered hand, not wanting to be rude.

"Nice to meet you too." My words come out slow and unsure, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"So sorry to be stopping by this late, but I wanted to check in before I leave for the night. Everything still going well with our patient?" Again, my eyes shift to Sara, and this time she speaks.

"Sure is, Doc."

"Good, good. Well, if you feel ready, I'm thinking we can have you home by tomorrow afternoon. Granted, you'll have to come back here for physical therapy. You'll also need someone who can keep an eye on you at home. I'm guessing that's where you come in?" He winks as his head turns to me, and it takes me a second to understand, but when I do, I nod.

"Sure, I mean, yeah, of course. I'll take care of her, no problem." I feel the heat in my cheeks, the flush spreading down my neck.

"Great! I'll see you two tomorrow, then, and we'll go over the aftercare plan." He smiles wide, and his teeth are so white, it looks like miniature light bulbs in his mouth. I stand in stunned silence, gradually becoming aware of what I've agreed to.

"You okay?" Her voice breaks my train of thought.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"You don't have to take me in or anything. I can manage." I can't help but smile at her lone wolf mentality, her desire to be fully self sufficient, not needing anything from anyone. I try to imagine what it would be like to have her live with me, to be able to see her everyday, to hear her laughter, to touch her skin.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're staying with me, and I won't hear another word about it." She starts to open her mouth, presumably to argue the point, but closes it and nods slightly.

I step outside the room to call my mother and fill her in on everything and let her know I'll be home tomorrow, with a plus one. When I enter the room again, I set myself up on the sad, plastic chair, ignoring the subtle pang in my side, and prop my feet on the low windowsill.

"What are you doing?" Sara's voice is thick with confusion.

"The same thing you should be doing. Trying to get some sleep."

"Don't you have better things to do?" I peek at the clock on the wall.

"At 10 o'clock at night?"

"What about Lindsay?"

"She's staying at a friend's house." Quiet fills the space, and my eyes are closed when her voice reaches my ears again, the sweetness of slumber close enough to taste.

"Cat?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." The sandman holds my hand as I drift off, and a sense of contentment eases over me, the feeling that I'm where I'm supposed to be settling across my skin like a warm blanket. The chair is uncomfortable, hard plastic digging into my shoulders, and the air circulating through the room is cold and dry, but despite it all, I sleep better than I have in weeks with Sara's soft breathing like a lullaby in my ears.


	20. Chapter 20

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **The big 2-0! Without the interest and support of everyone, I know I wouldn't have kept going for this long. Thank you all so much! :)**

* * *

It's still dark outside when the vibrations from my cell phone nudge me awake. The clock on the wall reads four thirty in the morning, and I drag my stiff limbs up from the chair, my leg tingling with pins and needles, causing me to trip over my own feet. I make it outside the door of Sara's room before I answer the call, and I know it's Gil before I even check.

"Is everything okay?" My voice is dull from sleep, my words coming out thick and fuzzy through my lips.

"I woke you up." Even though he can't see, I still roll my eyes.

"Well, yeah. Do you know what time it is?" There's a pause, the sounds of shuffling in the background.

"Four thirty four."

"I know that. It was rhetorical. Nevermind. What's going on?" He pauses again, and I can see him in my head, adjusting his glasses, shifting his weight.

"It seems you might have been on to something earlier. The blood in her car wasn't hers. It was Jonathan Rawls's blood. There's no indication she was harmed, but there's plenty of evidence pointing to her being the shooter. It would appear she's on the run."

My heart plummets to my gut, a solid mass crushing my organs as it falls, and I turn in the hallway, looking at Sara through the door, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. I can't say that I'm totally surprised. I knew Liz was involved somehow, but I was hoping it wasn't this bad, that maybe she was just a confused party in the mix, going along with someone else's plan, but it's starting to look like she's the puppeteer and not the puppet.

"She'll come back. She'll try to see Sara again. She won't stop, Gil." I hear him exhale a deep breath, and I know he's thinking the same thing.

"I've set up a protective detail for you both starting immediately."

"Yeah, that worked great the last time." He ignores my sarcasm, the acrid sting of my words.

"I requested a team for Sara at the hospital and another for you."

"Oh, uh, you'll only need one. Sara's getting released tomorrow. She's going to stay with me." Dead silence fills the other end of the line, allowing the sounds of the building around me to filter through my still half-asleep brain. I can hear the faint sounds of hushed crying emanating from a nearby room, the gentle murmurs of condolences, the whispers of death.

"Good. I'll talk to you soon." There's a quiet click as the call disconnects, and I lean against the wall, sliding the phone in my pocket. It's too late, or early, to worry about his feelings, to try to understand his push and pull. I shuffle back into Sara's room and return to the chair, hoping for whatever extra sleep I can squeeze out of what's left of the night.

* * *

The morning drags, a mound of paperwork and aftercare instructions sucking time slowly, and I can tell Sara's anxious to leave, to stretch her legs on something other than cold linoleum. A nurse accompanies us to my car, which I asked Gil to drive over for me, knowing he could catch a ride back to work. He sent Nick and Warrick instead.

After Sara buckles her seat belt and I turn the key, I realize it's the first time we've been alone since everything happened, since Thomas stole things from each of us that we'll never get back, since the time spent waiting to die, clutching each other with hopeful fingers.

We're on the road for only a few minutes before she speaks.

"How bad is it?"

"How bad is what?" She cocks her head to the side, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows.

"I know Grissom called you early this morning."

"Maybe we should wait until later, talk about it after we've had a cup of coffee." Or a gallon of liquor.

"Cat." I sigh, running a hand through my hair at a red light and turning to look at her. She deserves to know what I know, even if it's not what she wants to hear.

"It's not good. It's looking like she was involved in everything." There's a beat, a pause, the sounds of our breathing filling the quiet space, and I wish I would've turned on the radio.

"Did she kill Jonathan Rawls?" I bite the inside of my lip, tasting blood, and watch as another light turns red.

"They're not sure yet. The little bit of evidence they have says there's a good chance she did, but she's in the wind."

"So, that's why the black sedan's been following us since we left?" I glance in the rear view mirror, taking note of the vehicle myself as it trails two cars behind us.

"Gil just wants to make sure we're safe."

"Do you think she did it?" I do my best to stay focused, to concentrate on the road in front of me, on the cars whizzing by during the morning rush, their horns blaring, their drivers impatient and hurried.

"Do you?"She doesn't answer right away, shifting to stare out the window as her free hand plays with a loose fiber on the sling covering her arm.

"I think she could." I don't know what comes next, the right phrase to follow with, the magic words to make the truth less painful, so I say nothing.

She's silent for the rest of the ride, and I take quick peeks at her reflection in the window, her stolid features giving nothing away. She's got her belt unbuckled before I pull in the driveway, her door open before I shift gear into park, and by the time I'm out of the car, she has both of her not so light bags draped over her good shoulder, their weight making her uneven and bent.

"I would've carried them for you."

"It's fine. I got it." She struggles to stand straight and walk at the same time, and if I wasn't afraid she'd pop a lung, it would be amusing to watch her try.

"Sara. Give me the bags." Her eyes narrow, and she seems to be thinking about refusing, but reluctantly, she relinquishes them, grumbling under her breath about not needing help. I follow behind her, handing her the keys to open the front door. When we get inside, I carry her bags to the guest room, and she moves to help me lower them with more ease, our hands meeting when they hit the floor.

Old habits die hard, and I expect her to pull back from our contact, to jerk away like she has in the past, but we both hold steady, the feel of each other's skin like a soothing balm on our invisible wounds, the gashes only we know about, the cuts only we can heal. I want to draw her into my embrace, hold her tight against my chest and lie with her on the floor, let everything else fall away. I want to get lost in the hollows of her curves and find myself in the bottomless canyons that are her eyes. She clears her throat, and I know that I've been staring. She takes in the room with a sweeping glance, settling back on my face.

"This is too much, Cat. I'd be fine on the couch." I wave her off, gathering my composure from where it crashed to the ground.

"Nonsense. Where would I fall asleep when I'm watching TV?" A tiny smile flits over her lips.

"I think I might want to lie down for a little, if you don't mind?"

"Of course not. I was thinking about doing the same. Plastic hospital chairs aren't the best for a restful sleep, I guess." I reach for the doorknob to make my exit, but her small voice stops me.

"You weren't wrong last night." Our eyes meet for what feels like the first time, emotions traveling across unseen strings tied to our wrists, ions charging the air around us, and I stop breathing in the seconds between her words. "I feel it too."

We're both still, afraid to disturb the ground we've stepped foot on, the new path we're clearing together through the mayhem that is our lives. She bites her lip, readjusts her arm in the sling, and in a rare moment, she looks unsure.

"Where do you want to go from here?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel, my knees and arms shaky with nervous energy, with timid anticipation.

"I don't know, Cat. Nothing is how I thought it would be, and everything's a mess. _I'm_ a mess." Her eyes stray to her limp arm, and I know she feels broken and inadequate, lessened by her injury. Add Liz to the mix, and I can understand her apprehension, her desire to withdrawal, but I won't let her. I close the distance between us, hooking a finger under her chin and gently pushing up, giving her no choice but to meet my gaze. I run my thumb along the curve of her jawbone as I speak, the soft motion seeming to calm us both.

"Maybe everything is a mess, and maybe things aren't what you thought, but I want this, Sara. I want you, and if you need time, I'll wait. If you need to talk, I'll listen. If you need anything, I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

I raise myself up, standing on the tips of my toes to reach and place a chaste kiss on her forehead. As I lower back down, her good arm snakes around my middle, pulling me against her, the warmth of her body merging with my own, and she captures my lips with an aching need. My hand slides down her neck and into her hair, pushing us closer, deepening the intensity of the kiss, and her hips roll forward, pressing into me.

She tastes like all the colors of the universe, the stars and the moons, like novas exploding on my tongue, and I want this to last forever, want the world to decay around us as we're held in space. She breaks the contact first, both of us dizzy with passion and panting heavily, our noses touching as we catch our breath. Her fingers trail idly along my lower back, and it sparks atoms that zing up and down my spine.

"I want this too, Cat."


	21. Chapter 21

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Thanks to all for continuing to read! It means the world! : )**

* * *

We're taking things slow. I'm getting to know Sara in new ways, learning the subtle movements of her body, the nuances of her words, the things that make her uniquely her. Under the lab coat and behind the microscope is a woman who's complex and vast, vulnerable even, though she'd never admit it.

I try not to think about Liz, the hurricane raging outside our doors, the storm itching to suck us into its throes, but it's hard knowing she could be just around the corner, lurking, stalking, waiting to attack. Sara doesn't talk about her, but it's a conversation we need to have sooner rather than later. It's been four days since she was released from the hospital, and the voice in the back of my head knows that Liz won't wait much longer to poke her head out from the foxhole, to try and reclaim what she thinks is hers.

I fall asleep on the couch, watching some documentary about ancient Egypt, and I'm awoken by a loud bang. My body jerks as my eyes snap open, and I reach under the couch for my gun, curling my fingers around the cool metal of the grip, its weight making me immediately feel safer. Still foggy with sleep, I remain unmoving, listening for sound, trying to weed out the unfamiliar or unusual from the normal house creaks and groans.

The narrator on the TV talks about King Tut and the treasures buried alongside him in his tomb. The air conditioner kicks on, rattling the loose vent in the living room. The occasional car drives by outside, headlights piercing the blinds, casting shadows on the wall behind me. I breathe, try to slow the erratic beats of my heart as another loud crash reverberates through the empty house.

I jump up, gun held in front of me, and I take slow steps toward the source of the noise, thankful that Lindsay's staying with my mother until the bedlam that my life is drowning in can be sorted out, until it's safe for her again. It's not ideal, but it's necessary, and it makes me hate Liz for putting us all in this predicament, for taking away our safety, for forcing us into fear. I peek through the curtain as I pass, noting the unmarked vehicle sitting across the street. It wouldn't be the first time a suspect's gotten past a detail.

When I approach the kitchen, there are mixing bowls on the counter, baking ingredients lined up behind them, and the refrigerator is hanging wide open. Sara rises from a hunkered position on the floor, a carton of eggs held in her hand and a half gallon of milk clutched between her chest and bicep.

"Jesus, Sara!" She whips around, surprisingly keeping both objects from dropping to the floor, and looks at me with guilty eyes.

"I woke you. I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep." She doesn't seem fazed by the gun pointed at her chest, the metal gleaming in the soft glow from the light above the sink. She doesn't mention it at all, even as I lower the weapon, clicking on the safety and placing it gently on the kitchen table.

"It's fine. I just thought you were…" The sentence doesn't need to be finished for her to know who I was expecting to find. She pulls out a chair, laying the eggs and milk on the table, her shoulders slumped and her chest deflated.

"I'm sorry, Cat. You shouldn't have to-"

"Stop it, Sara. I told you - no more apologies. Nothing that's happened is your fault, so stop taking the responsibility off of those who deserve to shoulder it." She doesn't believe me, and I don't know if she ever will. She'll be offering condolences until her hair turns grey and she's got a walker with tennis balls for feet. She wants to make everything better. She wants to wave a magic wand and disappear the villain into the mist. She wants to save us.

"I dream about her, about him. I see their faces when I close my eyes. I hear their voices in my sleep." I have the same dreams, the same nightmares. In mine, they're two heads, sharing the same body, laughing with the voices of a thousand different demons, the echoes of madness gnawing into my skin like millions of rats. I don't tell Sara, though. It's the first time she's opened up, so I let her talk. "We met at a party thrown by a mutual friend. It seems like forever ago, now. We started talking, because she was the only person that laughed at my jokes. I should have known there was something off with her then."

"You? At a party? Telling jokes?" She nudges me under the table with her foot. It's a playful gesture, something she wouldn't have done before, and I return the smile she throws at me.

"I do have interests outside of work."

"Could have fooled me."

"Yeah, yeah."

"So, you wooed her with this stunning wit of yours and the rest is history?"

"I guess."

"And then you fled to Vegas and waited five years to file for divorce?" It comes across with more sting than I had intended, small drops of bitterness from the words lingering on my lips like stains from wine.

"We had our issues."

"You mentioned." She starts to struggle with our exchange, the light-hearted tone getting lost in the details as her life is cracked open like a fresh egg, scrambled in the pan and served on a plate.

"We started growing apart, moving away from each other. She took a job at a top law firm in the city, defending the people I was trying to put behind bars. She changed. One day, I woke up and realized I didn't know her anymore. And I didn't want to, at least not the person she was becoming."

"Ouch." If I know nothing else about Sara, it's that she's loyal. If you gain her trust, if you make it over her towering walls, you're in for life. So, for her to write Liz off so casually, so absolutely, it makes me wonder if what she saw were glimpses of the Liz I've come to know, if she saw her capacity for harm.

"I filed as soon as I got here. She never signed the papers, ran circles around me with legal ease, using trumped up lawyer tactics and tricks, throwing laws at me for the State of California that didn't translate to Nevada. It's been a mess."

"So, she just showed up out of nowhere looking to mend fences after years of strained relations and you didn't find it strange?" Sara sits up straighter, pulling her body away from me, distancing herself physically.

"Of course I thought it was strange, but I didn't think she was involved in murder plots or that she would be. She was -is- still my wife. I loved her once, trusted her. You never want to believe the people close to you can be monsters." Her eyes fall, landing on the floor and staying there.

She's right. I've known monsters, looked into their dead eyes, felt the chill of evil that coats their skin like a thick oil, but I've never loved one. I've never known what it feels like to have someone you shared your life with turn around and decimate your reality, the truths you had come to trust. It's not just the rug that's been pulled out from under her, it's the whole world.

"I'm sorry, Sara. I - I can't even imagine."

"It's fine." It's not, but I can't change that. All I can do is be here for her now. I know it will take time to prove to her that I'm not a wolf in sheep's clothing, that I won't throw her away like an old toy, that I won't break her.

The atmosphere around us has grown dismal, pregnant with pain, with the seeds of wickedness. I've had enough of Liz tonight, enough of her malignancy seeping into the walls, and I wonder if she'll always be the dark cloud that hangs over us, soaking us in her vile rain. I survey the items on the counter, watch as the container of milk sweats, tiny beads trickling down the sides, forming a puddle of water at its base.

"What were you going to cook up here? It looks like you raided the whole pantry." Sara raises her head, following my gaze, and a sheepish grin greets me when I meet her eyes.

"I was going to make a cake."

"So, not only are you a master jokester, you're also a master baker?" She laughs, leaning forward as wisps of hair shake loose from behind her ears, falling around her face. When she looks back up, her eyes sparkle, brilliant lights piercing the darkness, just like stars. There's a whole universe inside her, and I want to know every galaxy, visit every solar system, learn all the constellations in her skies.

"You're giving me too much credit. You've never tasted my baked goods."

"I've never had the chance." A ripple of fervid tension weaves through the kitchen, and Sara clears her throat as she stands.

"You wanna help?"

"Only if you tell me one of your jokes."

"No, no way. They're terrible." I rise to join her, my hand brushing across her back as I reach for a mixing bowl, relishing in the ease of our interaction and the warmth of her body close to my own.

"Aw, come on. They can't be that bad." She pours flour into a measuring cup as I unwrap a stick of butter.

"Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you. A neutron walks into a bar and asks how much for a beer. The bartender replies, 'For you, no charge.'" She looks directly at me when she gets to the punch line, and I laugh like it's the funniest thing I've ever heard. Maybe it's her delivery or the slight tug at the corners of her mouth like she's suppressing a laugh of her own, but it works. I'd be happy to spend every night with her, baking cakes and listening to her corny jokes. It's a side of her I didn't know existed, and I love it.

"Tell me another." She groans, sifting the flour into a bowl and adding baking soda.

"Just one more." I nod, waiting expectantly.

"Who was the first electricity detective?" She pauses for effect, whisking the dry ingredients together. "Sherlock Ohms." It's cheesy and nerdy, just like the first one, but I still laugh.

I don't know what time it is when we finally fall asleep. Flour dust covers the kitchen surfaces. Cake crumbs dot the floor. Dabs of icing smear across our shirts, and we lie together on the couch, my head in her lap as daylight breaches the horizon.


	22. Chapter 22

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **A thousand apologies for the lateness! There was a lovely sickness going around my workplace that tracked me down and kicked my arse. But I am here, with updates! Thank you all so much for continuing to read! Hope everyone is well!**

* * *

"Are you sure? You have more time if you need it." I cross my legs as I lean back in the chair, surveying the mounds of files piled high on both sides of his desk, stacked haphazardly, swaying from uneven weight, and I ignore his question.

"Have you done any paperwork since I've been gone?" He follows my gaze as if he's just noticing the mess for the first time, taking in its height and abundance, pushing his glasses up with his forefinger and sighing.

"Some." He looks run down and tired, fresh bags forming under his eyes, new wrinkles creasing the skin of his forehead. These past weeks haven't been kind to any of us, and it's easy to fall behind or sink under the pressure. I have a feeling he's barely keeping his head above water, trying to stay afloat for everyone around him, for the team, for the victims, for me - for Sara.

"We should talk, Gil."

"I thought that's what we were doing." I roll my eyes, shooting him an exasperated look.

"You know what I mean. About us. About Sara."

"What about the two of you?"

"Gil." He removes his glasses, placing them on his desk and rubbing his eyes.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Catherine."

"Say what you feel. Say that you're upset. Say that you're hurt. Say that you're pissed. Just say something." Silence saturates the office, clogging the lines of communication, washing out the sounds of the lab in the background, burying us with its nothingness. I feel like I'm testing the boundaries of our friendship, stepping outside the pre-drawn lines of what's acceptable, and I don't know what to expect. We've all been thrown carelessly into new territory, fumbling to find our way without a map, only each other to rely upon.

Suddenly, with great force and a heaving breath, the atmosphere seems to exhale around us, releasing the tension and breaking us both out of our own heads. He meets my eyes as he positions his glasses back on his face, like he's putting himself together again, regaining something lost.

"I'm glad for you both."

"Really?"

"I just want her to be happy, Catherine, and she's happy with you." He says it with conviction, with the certitude of someone who has knowledge I'm not privy to.

"You sound so sure."

"I am." He marks the close of our conversation, the period at the end of the sentence, and I don't press him.

"So, I'll start tomorrow." He nods, pulling a folder from one of the paper mountains and flipping it open.

"Everyone will be glad to have you back. You've been missed around here." I've missed being here, missed the adrenaline from working a scene, missed the satisfaction of closing a case. I really do love the job, but before I return, I need a clean slate with us. I need his friendship. I need to know he's still got my back.

"We're okay, right?" He stops what he's doing and looks up, smiling softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"We're okay." As I'm leaving, his voice calls out, causing me to turn. "I almost forgot, they're pulling the protective detail."

"I was wondering how long it would take."

"That doesn't mean we're out of the woods."

"I know. I'll be careful, Gil."

* * *

Sara's physical therapy is still in session when I arrive to pick her up. She won't let me stay, making me leave every time. She's afraid of not making progress, of getting nowhere when she wants to be everywhere. She's afraid of failing, of never being able to work again. Her identity is interwoven with her job, and she doesn't know who she is without it. She doesn't know that she's still amazing without a badge, still capable without a gun, perfect no matter what.

I can tell the moment she steps through the door that she's upset. Frustration rolls off her in waves, pervading the hallway with hostile energy, curling like smoke around the ceiling lights. She stops when she sees me, and for a second, surprise and relief peek around the edges of her defeated anger before retreating back to safety.

"Hey."

She bristles past me without responding, her body as tense as the energy around her, leaving me to stand in the hallway by myself. The door she emerged from opens again, the physical therapist peeking her head out of the small crack. She's a young woman, with bouncy, blonde hair, piercing eyes, and an optimism that borders on annoying, but she pushes Sara, forces her out of her comfort zone to breach her limits. It's exactly what she needs.

"Didn't go well today, I assume?" Emily smiles while shaking her head.

"It actually went great. She's just not getting the results she wants, and she's having a hard time staying positive about her progress."

"Yeah, I noticed. Is there anything I can do to help? I try to be encouraging and offer support, but she's so damn stubborn. I'm not sure it gets through sometimes." She cracks a knowing grin.

"It gets through. In fact, I don't think she'd keep showing up if it wasn't for you." A warmth blooms at the base of my neck, trickling down my limbs, coating the surface of my skin, and I don't know what to say, so I offer her a quick thank you and make my way outside.

Sara's leaning against the passenger side of the car, her arms folded across her chest, the left limb hanging lower than the right, her range of motion still stunted, limiting her actions. She's in the vehicle as soon as I unlock the doors, her seat belt buckled, her sunglasses on to hide the choppy seas of her eyes, the dangerous waves of disappointment she's flailing in.

I drive in silence, knowing better than to poke an angry bear, allowing her time to gather herself, to pull her head above the water and come ashore. By the time I turn into the driveway, she still hasn't said a word, looking out the window the whole time, keeping her thoughts locked inside her head, tucked away to cover up the weakness she's so deathly afraid of showing.

"Sara." She unbuckles her belt, reaching for the handle of the door, wanting to make an escape. "Stop." She halts, her hand in mid air, shaking slightly, fresh waves of emotion rolling off of her like steam, filling the enclosed space with a stifling pressure, and any rational person would heed the warning, the alarms blaring, _'Let it be'_.

"What, Catherine?"

"You're acting like a child." She scoffs, edging back into her seat, still not facing me.

"Can this wait? I'm hungry, and I like to be reprimanded on a full stomach." She wants a fight, wants an excuse to lash out, to direct her anger at something tangible, something that will react.

"This isn't going to work if you don't let me in. You need to learn to trust me." I see her swallow, feel the shift in the atmosphere, the ebb arriving slowly, receding with her anger in tow.

"I do trust you." Like a balloon deflating, her voice loses its biting edge.

"Then, talk to me. Tell me what's going on with you."

"I'm broken."

"What?"

"I'm defective, no good. I've got a sorry excuse for an arm, and I can't work. My foster brother kidnapped and tried to kill us both. My wife is just as crazy and missing after possibly killing a man. I'm just a magnet for death and destruction. Why are you taking care of me? Why do you even want me around?" I twist in my seat, facing her fully.

"Look at me, Sara." She turns, her sunglasses still in place, and I glide them up and off her face. Fear skitters like startled cats through the whites of her eyes, concealing itself in the shadows of her gaze. I know her fear, have felt its spindly threads wrap around myself before. It squeezes the organs, pinches the nerves, draws out the insecure oils lurking in the skin. She's afraid of what she feels, afraid of loving just to be left. She's pulling away. "I told you before that I want this. Your physical limitations don't change that. Your past doesn't change that. _Liz_ doesn't change that. You can push all you want, but I won't budge. I won't push back. I believe in you, in us, and I'll fight for it, even if it's you I have to fight. I'm not going anywhere, Sara."

I watch her struggle to believe me, to trust the earnestness of my convictions. She studies my eyes like maps of foreign lands, searching for the rivers of lies, peaks of uncertainty, a minuscule trace of anything that betrays my words, so later she can say she was right to doubt, to keep herself from falling. Whatever she finds, or doesn't find, she keeps to herself.

Her stomach growls with insistence, my own grumbling in response, and we both laugh, the semi relieved laughter that follows a serious conversation, stilted yet welcoming.

"I wasn't lying about being hungry." I roll my eyes playfully, tossing her sunglasses into her lap.

"No more Chinese. I feel like I'm made of Kung Pao Chicken."

"Fair enough." I turn to exit the car, but her hand guides me back, her mouth grazing mine in a tender kiss, and I know it's her way of saying that she heard me, that she's trying. I prop my knee on the center console for leverage and slide closer to her, my hands weaving into her hair, and deepen the kiss. Her tongue teases my lips, making me want her more, and her hand slinks along the length of my thigh, closer and closer to the heat burning through my jeans. Her fingers skim the metal of my zipper, traveling up and under my shirt, the contact eliciting a moan from deep in my throat.

A car door slams, and we both freeze, her fingertips resting on the fabric of my bra, her breath hot on the skin of my neck. I crane my head to look out the passenger window, making eye contact with a very red faced man, who bobbles his keys before fitting one in the door to his house and disappearing inside. I rest my head on Sara's shoulder, snickering into the folds of her shirt.

"Oh god. Someone saw us, didn't they?"

"Well, we are making out heavily in plain sight." She untangles herself and scoots back in her seat, her cheeks red and blotchy, her eyes still shaded and dark with desire. Her stomach growls again as I readjust my top, pulling it down to cover the exposed area of skin. "Guess we should eat something."

"Yeah. What'd you say? All I want is Chinese? Kung Pao Chicken forever?" I nudge her with my elbow, matching her grin with one of my own.

"You're lucky you're so damn cute."

We never finish our conversation, and it's my fault for allowing her to distract me with her kiss, her touch, the feel of her body close to mine, but I don't forget the the words left unsaid. I don't forget the fear I saw, the unnerving squatter living under her eyelids, whispering tales of fiction, sabotaging our potential, making me out to be a criminal.


	23. Chapter 23

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Thanks to all for continuing to read! Hope everyone is well!**

* * *

It's been a week since I returned to work, and it hasn't been easy for Sara, more like a kick to the gut while she's down. I see her growing restless, her mind caged and clambering to be free, to work a scene, to be back in the lab. The tiny pinholes of resentment expand, still too small to be a major problem, but large enough for me to feel them, and I know it's only a matter of time before the dam breaks, flooding our foundation and drowning us both.

It starts one morning when I get home, over pancakes and syrup, after the coffee and orange juice, before the plates are empty. She shuffles pieces of soggy flapjacks around with her fork, squishing them into mush, a thick, sugary stew of food she won't eat.

"Not hungry?" She looks up, like she was somewhere else, lost in a world of better breakfasts, and slides her plate away from her.

"Not really." It takes all I have to ignore the food she's been leaving behind, the graveyard's worth of meals she hasn't been eating, but her jeans are getting looser, her shirts starting to billow off her already slender frame. It's a topic I know I'll have to breach soon.

"Oh. Did you have anything planned for today?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" She clenches her jaw, pushing her chair back from the table, but she doesn't stand. She's been defensive for the past few days, lunging at any chance to take offense. If she was pulling away before, she's pushing now, and not gently.

My shift was long, the underbelly of Vegas regurgitating its dead onto the seedy streets, bodies rotting behind dumpsters, bleeding out in Bellagio bathtubs, careening through windshields on the strip. The sounds of death are stifled under the dings of slot machine whirs and the clinking of ice cubes in glasses. In Sin City, greed and gluttony rule the roads, taking precedence over wrath and murder. Nobody hears the lost souls but us. I'm tired. Tired from hours in the field. Tired from stacks of paperwork. Too tired to have this fight.

"Nothing, Sara. It was just a question." She rises from her seat, shoving the chair under the table and dumping the remnants of her uneaten breakfast in the trashcan before tossing her dish with unapologetic disregard into the sink. I expect her to stomp off or continue her tirade verbally, wedging more shards of arguments in the growing space between us, their jagged edges shredding the possibilities of what could be, but she does neither. I turn to see her standing at the sink, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, seemingly lost in thought.

"Sara?" I hear her inhale, a deep encompassing breath, like she's trying to harness whatever courage might be floating by on the air and collect it for herself, drawing it into her shaky lungs.

"I think I should move back to my place." I don't mean to, but I drop my fork, the metal slipping free of my grasp, hitting my plate with a loud clang. She pivots on her heel to face me, arms stiff at her sides, eyes shielded and low, giving nothing away, closing herself off from me. She's caught me off guard. I knew our situation was veering into precarious territories, knew the events that had brought us together were starting to eat away at the already tenuous framework we'd been constructing, but I didn't know she was looking for a way out.

"Are you…but…did I-" I scramble to find the words to say, the words that will keep her here, keep her from diving into waters I can't swim. If she leaves, I'm afraid she won't return. I'm afraid what we are will perish under the weight of what made us, and the thought causes my chest to seize up, constricting the flow of oxygen, making me dizzy and faint.

"I think it's best. I mean, what am I really doing here, Catherine? You go to work while I loaf around, do some cleaning, feel sorry for myself? I can do that at home." Her words are a punch to the teeth, and I wrestle with the crescendo of emotions that ascend in my throat, threatening to spill onto the kitchen floor, covering the tile with their broken notes. We never talked about her staying here permanently, but I assumed it'd be a rational conversation we had over a hot cup of tea, not an assault over pancakes and coffee.

"I didn't know you felt that way." It's not how I want to respond, but it's all I can muster, and I'm in no state to make sense, my brain cloudy from lack of sleep and confusion. Besides, she's an adult. She's going to make her own decisions regardless of what I think, that much is clear. I thought we could be partners, steering the same ship with respect for each other, but I don't recognize the pirate standing before me, hijacking the helm and kicking me off the deck.

"A taxi is picking me up in about an hour. I need to get my stuff." I realize this was never meant to be a discussion, just her telling me the way things are, the way things will be, and it cuts deeper than I'd like to admit.

Somehow, I finish eating. I rinse my plate and wash the dishes. I clean the surfaces of the kitchen in a daze, and I'm sitting at the table as she carries her bags to the front door, in the same place I was when she went upstairs. She looks at me before she leaves like she wants to say something, but she just stares, holding my gaze across the distance, keeping me pinned to my seat. A car horn blares from outside, and she gathers her bags as she opens the door, shutting it gently behind her. I wait until I hear the cab door open and close, until I hear its grinding engine speed down the road, and then I cry.

* * *

"Did you want sugar, dear?" She putters around the kitchen, busying herself, tidying things that don't need tidied, straightening things that are already neat and in their place.

"Sure."

"I don't get why you're so upset. She was such a moody girl." Like a fool, I called my mother, and like every time before, I already regret it.

"Her name is Sara, mother, and you didn't even know her."

"I know enough from what you've told me over the years." I haven't been the kindest judge of character when relaying Sara and my's ups and downs. I've been harsh in the past, and my mother is running on assumptions that no longer hold any water.

"I called you for advice, not judgment. Can we save that for later? I'm sure you have some new thoughts on how I parent or my lack thereof."

"Well, you know all this hasn't been easy on Lindsay. She's too young to have to deal with these sorts of things."

"Mother."

"Fine, dear. We'll stick to your gloomy friend. What did you say happened now?" She finally sits down, settling into her seat with her hands clutched tightly around her steaming mug. It makes me think of Sara, our breakfast after work that seems like so long ago, nursing her coffee with puckered lips, steam curling in wisps around her face from her breath mingling with the hot liquid. Have we really come full circle? Is this how we're dismantled? Is this how we collapse, over tense words and pancakes? I'll never eat them again.

"She left."

"Well, I got that, dear. Why are you so upset? Doesn't she have a home of her own?"

"Of course she does."

"And weren't you just taking her in until she could manage on her own?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then, maybe I'm missing something." She looks directly at me when she speaks, her knowing eyes daring me to divulge more, to let her in on what she already seems to know. I stand, too uncomfortable to sit, my nerves bouncing like rubber balls under my skin, and I pace.

"She's not handling her recovery well, and she's blaming herself for every thing that's happened, our being taken, the deaths, the injuries. I've been trying to help her through this, but she's pushing me away. I just…" I can't finish my thought. I don't know how to form the words that come next.

"You love her." I choke on my coffee, having enough sense to turn before the hot liquid spurts out of my mouth, splashing the freshly cleaned metal of the sink. It wouldn't matter now anyways. It wouldn't matter if her voice gave me chills, wouldn't matter if the thought of her kiss made my stomach flutter and flip, wouldn't matter if my heart cried out her name with each aching beat.

"I don't know what I feel."

"You do, or you wouldn't have called me. You only ever ask for my help when you need the truth pointed out to you, or a babysitter."

"Even if it was true, it doesn't change what happened today. It won't fix what's broken."

"How do you know?" I have no answer to offer, just a dumb look and an empty stare. She takes a sip of her coffee, her face scrunching up at the taste, and she stands to open the refrigerator as she casually throws more words over her shoulder. "You've never been one to give up, dear. Why start now?"

She's right. From the beginning, I've fought for our relationship, watched us grow into something complex and exotic, our metamorphosis prepossessing in its intricate design. I don't want to let us die on the vine, shriveling up like grapes in the frost. I won't. Even if it takes what's left of me, wrenches my heart from my chest with rancorous force, ransacks the cavities of my chest with greedy fingers, I'll still fight. I know what I want, and I know what I saw in Sara's eyes, what I felt in her touch. I won't let her fear be our end.


	24. Chapter 24

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **I...am an evil person, and I am sorry. Honestly, I'm still working on what I wanted to be the rest of this chapter, but I wanted to put something up, so yeah. I have been remiss as well in not giving thanks for the reviews and continued support! It means so much. Thank you!**

* * *

My text messages go unanswered, my calls go to voice mail, and my hope turns into anger. How dare she disappear like this. How dare she ignore me. How dare she break my heart.

"Catherine?"

"What?" I snap at the voice, resentment not meant for the speaker sticking to the word like hardened sugar.

"Whoa, hey. Just thought you'd like to see the results of that DNA comparison." I turn to see Greg standing in the doorway, a mixture of confusion and fear coloring his boyish features.

"I'm sorry, Greg." I walk over and take the sheet of paper from him, sighing at its contents - no match.

"Rough night?" He leans against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest in a relaxed pose, ready to listen, to offer advice. He's sweet, and his intentions are beyond reproach, but I don't want to talk.

"Something like that. Is that trace evidence ready yet?"

"Nah, not yet. Should be soon, though. What are you doing back here, anyways? Nobody uses this lab but-" I don't let him finish, cutting him off before the last word has a chance to slip free, overcrowding the space and illuminating my masochistic ways.

"Thanks, Greg." He nods, taking the hint and not pushing the issue, something I'm grateful for, and leaves with the ever present bounce in his step. I stalk through the dim hallways to my office, all but slamming the door when I enter, the blinds rattling against the glass panes. She's under my skin now, living just below the surface, making a home in my organs. I fall into my desk chair with ire, the seat creaking from the force, and I wonder how I let myself get tangled in her beautiful web, how she wrapped me up so completely without me even being aware. I wonder what the hell I'm going to do.

* * *

I don't notice her at first. I park my car and gather my things from the passenger side seat, making sure my service weapon is on the top of my purse. It's become habit now to sit in the silence of my vehicle, scoping out the perimeter of my house, looking for that small twitch in the bushes or the rustle of leaves, the snapping of branches. I'm always searching for her, a flash of blonde hair, a glimmer of green in the rear view. Liz is a poison, a slow death, and I'm just waiting for her to surface, but it's not her I see sitting on my front steps.

My muscles begin to thrum, vibrating with the force of a thousand bees swarming under my skin. I scold my body for its reaction, for its unreceived permission to respond to her this way, for turning my limbs into rubbery appendages, hanging like jelly filled flesh from my torso. She looks up, catching my gaze, and I know I have to move, have to get out of this car, have to make myself appear stronger than I feel. As I approach her, she stands, nervous hands playing with the hem of her shirt, rubbing her forearms, sliding through her hair. I hate that I want to kiss her.

"Hey." Her voice is sheepish, and she doesn't make eye contact when she speaks, staring at her shoes.

"Hello, Sara." She fidgets more, the coolness of my tone a recognizable warning that reads _'Danger ahead'_.

"Do you…Would you mind if I came in for a minute?" I brush past her, my breath hitching slightly as we make contact in the narrow space, and I hope she doesn't notice.

"Whatever." I open the door, heading inside, not daring to look behind me to see if she follows. Even though I'm worried and my heart feels like a jackhammer against the tender bones of my rib cage, I don't want to care this much. I don't want to give her that satisfaction.

I lay my purse on the kitchen table, tossing my jacket over the back of a chair before I go upstairs. I need to change out of these clothes. They smell like cigarettes and asphalt with a subtle hint of formaldehyde, and it makes my stomach churn. Sara can wait. I pick a skimpy tank top that highlights the best features I have, hugging my body like a second skin. I want her to notice, want her insides to burn like mine do. Maybe it makes me a bitch, but I want her to regret leaving.

She's standing in the entryway when I come down the stairs, looking out of place and lost, not sure if she should cross the threshold, not sure if she's allowed. As soon as she notices me, her eyes darken a shade, desire rolling like heavy, turbulent storm clouds across her irises, her mouth parting slightly in a small 'o', and she seems at a loss for words.

"Are you gonna come in or what? I don't have all day." She blinks rapidly, tries to steady herself, to regain her composure, and takes shaky steps into the kitchen as I reach into the refrigerator for a bottle of water. I don't offer her anything. I opt for leaning against the counter, trying my best to seem unfazed and detached. She stays standing as well, her hands holding the back of a chair, directly opposite me in the space.

"I wanted to talk, if that was okay?"

"Would it matter if it wasn't?" She bites her lip, an attempt to keep herself from rising to the fight, from taking the bait I'm dangling in her face.

"I'm sorry, Cat." The familiar shortening of my name flicks some kind of switch inside me, the anger erupting like lava, sizzling as it burns through the kitchen.

"For what? For making decisions about _our_ relationship without me? For leaving like a coward, with no explanation, not even a friendly 'Fuck you' on your way out the door? For ignoring me for the past four days, making me feel like a fool every time your phone went to voice mail, every time my texts went unanswered? What are you sorry for, Sara?" She takes my words like bullets, a barrage of furious lead scorching through her skin, and I watch her wince as each syllable slams into her chest, her arms, her legs. I don't allow her time to recover before I take more shots at her already wound riddled frame. "Did you think you could just waltz in and out of my life? That I'd be okay with that? I put myself in harm's way for you. I put my family in danger. And you pissed on it. You tossed me aside as soon as you didn't need me anymore, and now, you just want to say sorry? Huh? Say something, Sidle!"

I've gone too far, but there's no turning back now. The words are out there, jammed into the soft spots of her body, shredding through muscle to the bone. I don't realize I've stepped away from the counter, inching closer to her, fury guiding my feet, until I stop to catch my breath. Her fists are balled at her sides, her arms shaking, and when she speaks, her voice is low and measured, smooth like the razor's edge as it slices through me.

"Do you think this has been easy for me? Not a second passes without me knowing that all this happened because of me, that I'm the cause of so much pain. I wake up screaming from nightmares of death and blood. I had to kill my own brother, and my ex is a murderer on the run." She begins to breach the distance between us, closing the gap as she takes slow, steady steps towards me with each word. Her eyes are strangers, two orbs of emotion I can't comprehend, ablaze with hurt and bitterness, and her simmering intensity seems to fill the whole house with its magnitude. "My whole life has been upended. People I thought I could trust turned out to be monsters. My work, the job I love, has been stripped from me. Do you know how hard it was for me to watch you leave everyday? To watch all my friends, the people I care about, doing the one thing I can't? There's no place for me there, now. There's no place for me anywhere. What the hell do I have left?"

I feel the last question in my gut, a dagger grinding into my abdomen, and I try not to flinch.

"You have your friends. They're not going to write you off. They care about you, and they always will. You have your intellect, your drive, your tenacity. You have me."

"You don't understand." Both of us are vibrating, teeming with anger and resentment. She didn't come here to talk. She came here to end things. She came here to rid her conscience of guilt, to force my hand and pressure me into being the one who makes her leave.

We're standing only centimeters apart, our labored breaths battling for dominance in the tight space, and I want to grab her by the shoulders, shake her until she makes sense, until she sees reason. The words build inside my throat, and I scream in her face, freeing every emotion that's coursing through my veins.

"Then make me understand!" There's a fraction of a second where the fires in our eyes billow out to intertwine, twin flames connecting, whipping about our noses and cheeks before her hands grab the sides of my face and she kisses me with a force I've never known. My body responds before my brain has time to process what's happening, pressing against her own with desperate need, an ache that's been living in the hollow of my core, itching for release. There's still more we have to discuss, more questions that need to be answered, more explanations that need to be given. My mind is screaming at me to stop, telling me this isn't the way to solve our problems, but her tongue teases my lips, asking silently for entrance, and I feel the resistance give way, feel myself giving in.

The last of my remaining rationale vanishes as my hands scavenge for her flesh, for the heat of her skin under my fingertips, sliding under her shirt and feeling my way across the toned expanse of her back. Her arms wrap around my waist, her hands gliding down to my ass and squeezing, pushing me even closer to her, like she's trying to melt me into her, fuse my soul with her own, and it makes my knees falter, makes my lungs fill with a passion I didn't know I could possess.

She walks forward, guiding me with her, pressing me against the wall as her lips pull back from mine. She looks into me, through me, giving me a way out if I want it, allowing me the chance to stop before our minds are too hazy to think, before things go too far. Her eyes are black, her lips florid, her cheeks stained with red, and my thighs tense with just the thought of more. I've never wanted anybody this badly, never craved someone's touch with such reckless abandon. I need this. I need her.

I use my hands to put pressure on her back, tilting her forward, our lips crashing together with a desire so carnal, so fathomless, that I fear it could swallow us, bury us in the depths of its vastness. Her lips travel the curve of my jawline, grazing my ear, her leg sliding into the space between my own as her teeth nip at the sensitive skin on my neck. I moan, and she bites harder, her knee pressing against the warmth at the apex my thighs, making me wet, making my muscles quiver, making me want more of her, all of her.

I break our contact, finding her hand and interlacing our fingers, tugging lightly as I nod towards the area behind us. She understands, letting me lead, and I feel her heated gaze on me as we ascend the staircase, searing through the fabric of my clothes, watching the bounce of my breasts with each step, devouring me with starving eyes as we cross the threshold to my bedroom.


	25. Chapter 25

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Many thanks to everyone for continuing to read! Hope everyone is doing well. : )**

* * *

She nudges the door shut with her foot as she yanks on my hand, spinning me into her arms, and we collide like comets, tails blazing behind us as we crumble into the atmosphere, into each other. She wastes no time tugging the shirt from my torso, her greedy hands sliding under the fabric, pulling it up and over my head. I mirror her actions, hungry for the meeting of skin, the mingling of sweat and heat, for the vision of her body in front of me - naked and wanting.

We both still at the same time, and I hear the small hitch in her breath, the subtle stutter of her lungs as she scorches dangerous paths with her eyes across my form, traveling from my waist to the curve of my breasts, lingering on the scar stretched across my side, its angry presence a constant reminder. She traces its length with shaky fingertips, gentle touches cataloging my pain as her face floods with guilt and shame - and doubt.

I reach out to study the scar on her shoulder with timid curiosity, and she tries to inch away, but the door behind her stops the movement. The skin is lumpy and fibrous, crimpled from stitches and staples holding her together, and I know she's uncomfortable with my scrutiny of her injuries. I follow imaginary lines across her front, feather-light caresses ending at the scar on her side from the tube in her chest. I remember the fear, the uncertainty, the bravery she summoned, the way she held me as we shook, barren branches in the wind. I lean down to kiss her shoulder, and she tenses, her hold on me growing tighter.

Her hand still rests on my side, softly kneading the marred flesh, and I cover it with my own, urging her away from the past, moving so that the warmth of her touch is on my breast. She bites her lip as goosebumps raise the hair on my arms, as my nipple hardens under her palm, and our eyes find one another again, sharing secrets we're not ready to voice, writing stories we're afraid to speak. I want to tell her about the inferno living inside me, about the glow and the spark, the way it makes my heart combust and luminesce, but I'm overwhelmed in the moment, and the words fizzle out before they pass my teeth.

Like a mind reader, she seems to hear what I can't say and draws me closer, our lips coiling together as her hands waltz across the smooth skin of my chest, rolling my nipples between adept fingers, pinching the hardened peaks with just enough force to make me want more. She drives me backwards until my legs hit the edge of my bed, and her mouth curls into a devilish grin before she pushes me down on its waiting blankets.

She leans over me, her mouth descending on my chest, grazing her teeth along the puckered flesh, and I arch into her, weaving my hands through the softness of her hair. It's pain and pleasure when she bites down, forcing the moans from my throat, and I feel her smirk against my skin as I writhe under her expert touch. She lowers herself slowly down my body, taking her time as she explores the curves of my abdomen, kissing her way to the top of my pants, nipping at the newly exposed skin as she wriggles them down and over my knees.

She kisses me through my underwear, and it's almost more than I can take, the hotness of her breath driving me crazy, the leisurely speed of her actions building bombs inside me, unstable reactors begging to explode.

"Sara…" She hears the insistence, the need dripping from my words, and she doesn't care. Her mouth leaves searing trails of fire up my thighs, alternating between legs, between tongue and teeth, until her fingers hook under the thin fabric covering me and shimmy the garment free. Something like a growl escapes from deep in her lungs, its vibrations rumbling through me, ricocheting off my bones, and when I look down, the lust slithering across her features is overpowering, morphing her chocolate brown orbs into obsidian chasms that devour me.

"God, you're so wet." I shiver at her words, rolling my hips forward, my body aching for her, craving her so desperately, every nerve a live wire waiting for her grounding touch. Her arms wrap around my legs, holding me still as her tongue slips through my folds, swollen and slick with desire, and I cry out when she reaches my clit, her lips closing around the throbbing bundle of nerves, sucking gently as I buck in time with the rhythm of her motions.

The warmth starts in my belly, a rippling of fierce pressure pulsating through my chest and limbs, buzzing in my fingertips and toes, and just as the blood begins thrumming in my ears, hundreds of tribal drums all pounding out the same beat - she stops. The sound that bursts forth from my throat is guttural and strained, animalistic in its timbre and tone, and a faint chuckle wafts past my ears.

"What are you…" I don't get a chance to finish as Sara steals my words with her mouth, swallowing my question whole. I can taste myself in her kiss, on her teeth, on the smoothness of her tongue, and she bites down on my lower lip, tugging gently before breaking away to flip us, positioning me in front of her, straddling her lap, with an arm around my middle to hold me steady, keep me close.

Our eyes lock together as her free hand travels along the skin of my inner thigh, dipping into the space between our bodies. She doesn't look away as she enters me, and I swear I can see nebulae in her gaze, spiraling shapes that fluoresce and flow, forming planets in her irises, rising gases that lure me in and still my breath. With slow, determined strokes, she finds me, reveals me, emblazoning the darkness with brilliant shades of color, saturating my world with dust and stars.

I want her to come with me. I want her to know the outer limits of my passion, to feel the endless spectrum of rapture in my veins. I wrench open her pants, the button snapping free and landing with a dull thud on the carpeted floor. My fingers brush past denim and soft cotton, gliding through her wetness, and I thrust into her with urgent need. She feels like silk, like velvet, like everything I've been missing, and I don't want to feel anything else. I don't want to know anything else. In this moment, in her arms, both of us ascending into the stratosphere, the shadows of distant moons cradling us as we soar, I am complete.

She clenches around me as her body leans forward, her head nestled in the crook of my neck, and my name erupts from between her blushing lips, a frenzied mantra that trickles down my stomach, edging me into the beyond with her. It's pure delirium, crests of euphoria breaking against my spine as we heave and swell in perfect unison, our bodies two vessels navigating the capaciousness of ecstasy together.

We tumble backwards onto the bed, shaky muscles giving way, our breathing uneven and patchy, and reluctantly, gingerly, we untangle our quaking limbs. When I open my eyes, she's staring at me with a softness that I've never seen in her gaze, a misty glow that seems to stretch out and fold around me, bathing me in radiance. She skims my cheek with her fingertips, shifting so she's close enough that tips of our noses meet in a tickling graze.

"You're so beautiful." The earnestness of her statement, the sincerity in her face, it hits me in my chest, and I feel her words as they sprinkle down, sinking into my skin, leaving marks like a tattoo. I feel like we're untouchable, as if we exist outside the realm of what is tangible, hovering above the world, our souls intertwined like ancient roots. I try to fight the surge of emotion, but it consumes me, overtakes me, and a tear slips free, a lone bead of salty moisture landing silently on the bed.

She takes me into her arms, cradling me with gentle strength, and eases the blankets over our naked forms. Her hands wind through my hair, her lips placing kisses along my forehead, and we fall asleep with nothing between us but skin.

* * *

I wake to the mystical glow of the moon creeping along the sheets, smiling into my pillow before rolling over to find Sara, but the space next to me is empty. I wait for a few minutes, hoping she went to the bathroom or that she needed a drink, but she doesn't return. I hear no water running, no stairs creaking from the weight of someone walking, nothing at all. I throw on a t shirt and some sweatpants, willing myself to stay calm. I can still smell her on my skin, still taste her on my teeth, still feel her between my legs. This can't be what it looks like.

I move slowly through the house, in hopes of delaying the crushing feeling in my ribs, like my torso is caving in on itself, the bones ready to snap like dry twigs. Maybe she woke up and went downstairs to watch TV, not wanting to disturb me. Maybe she was hungry and got lost in cooking or baking some late night delicacy. My mind races with outcomes, with potential possibilities, with hundreds of alternatives to the scenario that's laid out before me.

"Sar?" It's a quiet question, an inquisition that expects no response, but I still feel the need to ask the empty air. Maybe it saw her sneak out, gather her things and leave again, the thief of my heart. At the bottom of the stairs, I still, looking for anything out of place, anything disturbed that might give me a clue as to where she went, or if she's coming back. "Sara?" It's human nature, I suppose, to call out when something is unknown, to seek answers from whatever is listening, to not want to accept the truth.

The living room is empty. The kitchen is the same as it was hours ago, my unopened water bottle still sitting on the counter, waiting to be drunk. There is no note, no hint of life, no sign of Sara at all. Did she really do this? Did she make for the hills, scuttling through the darkness with my love in tow? How could she do this to us, to me? Why?

I want to shout, to rage. I want to sweep everything from the counter with a blow of my arm and watch it all crash to the floor, watch the glasses splinter and shatter when they hit the linoleum, watch the flour puff up into dusty clouds as its porcelain container ruptures, spewing its contents along the walls and surfaces. I want to crumble where I stand, collapse to the ground and forget I ever saw the exquisiteness of her face, forget I ever knew the tenderness of her touch.

I turn on my heel, stomping towards the front door. I'll find her. I'll show up at her house. I'll force her to face this, to face me. I'm bent over, tying my shoes, when I smell it. I jolt upright, every hair on my body standing at attention, and it feels like snakes are creeping across my neck and down my arms, squeezing tight around my ribs. I know that scent, could pick it out in a sea of a hundred different aromas. My stomach does a flip, landing with an unforgiving thud at the bottom of my gut, and I'm just about to bolt for my bedroom when a forceful pressure rams into my back.

"Where is she?" Her voice is gravelly and hoarse, as if she's been screaming for days, and mixed in with the waning smell of her perfume is a musty odor, a foul, rotten stench that stings my nostrils and burns the back of my throat.

"Your guess is as good as mine." The pressure on my back turns to a jabbing pain as she shoves the muzzle of the gun harder against my spine, and I can almost hear the metal grinding against bone.

"Don't mess with me, you fucking bitch! Tell me!" She's crazy. Whatever sanity she had left is gone, dissipated into the fog. The woman behind me is an unstable mess, a desperate animal, a beast without care, and she wants what she came for.

"I don't know where she is, Liz."


	26. Chapter 26

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **Thanks to all for continuing to read! It means the world!**

* * *

I'm not sure what I really expected upon her return. I guess part of me had hoped she wouldn't come back at all, that she'd stay gone or they'd find her years from now hiding out on some tropical island somewhere. Then, that dark part of me, the tiny part we all have somewhere, the piece of us that we keep hidden, had hoped maybe, just maybe, that she was dead.

"What do you mean you don't know? I know she's staying here!" She's been keeping tabs on us, probably following us around, hacking into whatever information channels she can and staking out the house. She's gotten close without being seen - but not close enough.

"How long have you been watching us?" The pressure from the gun disappears as she removes it from my back, and I turn to look at her when the butt of the pistol cracks against my cheek. The blow knocks me off balance, and I stumble towards the living room, my hand outstretched to steady myself on the arm of the couch. Blood pools behind my lips, thick and coppery, and I spit the contents of my mouth on the floor, a piece of white tooth standing out amid the puddle of red.

I look up to find her smiling, a strange smile, off kilter and crooked, like a villain in a comic book, and I wonder if I'm the hero in this story - or a victim. Her clothes are filthy, spattered with mud and indiscernible fluids I'd rather not try to guess. Her hair is matted and wild, tufts springing forth in random patterns, stray leaves and small pieces of plant matter adorning the haphazard mess, and her face and hands are cut up, angry, little red marks covering her once smooth skin, but it's her eyes that stand out the most. Their vibrant green is stunning, hypnotic almost, and they follow my every movement, sharp and alert, piercing and relentless as they watch me watch her.

"God, I've wanted to do that from the moment I met you." She laughs as I use the sleeve of my t-shirt to wipe stray droplets of blood from around my mouth, and she reminds me of Thomas, her unhinged mind separating at the seams in front of me.

"Yeah, well, maybe one day I can return the favor." Her laughter stops, and she steps closer, bending over to speak next to my face, her foul breath leaking from between chapped lips.

"If it's up to me, you'll never get the chance." She says it with conviction, a dark promise I don't doubt she can fulfill, and it's almost as if her hatred of me chills the air around us, dropping the temperature so I shiver where I stand.

"What, are you going to shoot me like you did Jonathan Rawls? You know, you're developing some nasty habits, Liz." Her eyes narrow to fine slits, and she stands up straight, taking a deep breath, rolling her head from left to right, loosening the muscles in her neck, and in one swift movement, she drives her knee up and into my gut.

I crumple to the floor as the world begins to spin, black and silver dots speckling my vision, swirling around me like a mobile, twinkling in my peripheral. All sound fades away, and I can only hear the rushing of blood to my temples, the pounding of my heart against the walls of my chest, the crunch of my ribs as they fracture. Breathing eludes me, and I gasp as I try to inhale, waiting for my seizing lungs to calm and resume their steady flow of air. In and out, in and out.

Loud scraping cuts through my daze, and I crane my neck to see Liz dragging a kitchen chair across the linoleum, leaving grooves in her wake from the metal feet. It's as if she's pressing down to cause the most damage, and when she reaches the carpet, fibers seem to be jumping ship, flying up as she pulls the seat to its resting position, directly in front of me. She snaps her fingers like I'm a disobedient dog, trying to get my blurry eyes to focus, to see her, to understand her.

"So nice that we get this time to have a chat, though. See, you seem to be mistaken about a few things, Ms. Willows." I'm going to throw up. I feel the bile at the back of my throat, its acidic burn eating away at the lining of my esophagus while I struggle to keep it at bay. She sits up straight, her legs crossed over one another, and I can see the lawyer in her. I imagine her sitting in a courtroom, papers and folders neatly stacked before her, a sleek, black pantsuit tailor made to hug her curves, yet not so tight that she doesn't come across as professional. I bet she's a killer once she gets going, vicious and ruthless, walking around the room as if she owns it, like there is no chance she can lose.

"I'm sure you'll enlighten me." I speak through coughs, and I can taste fresh blood splashing against the inside of my cheeks with each convulsion. She uses the gun in her hand like a pointer, punctuating her sentences with sharp jabs and waving it in front of her for emphasis.

"First things first. You and your friends at the lab can't prove I killed anyone. All the evidence is circumstantial. Who's to say there wasn't some other person at the residence? That I was merely an innocent bystander caught in an argument gone awry and fled due to fear for my life? I may not be smarter than your computer programs and scientific machines, but I know the law."

She's got me there. You can interpret the evidence however you want, bend it to fit scenarios, stretch it to make it mean more or downplay its importance altogether. You can only hope a jury recognizes it for what it is and is keen enough to spot a snake oil salesman when they see one, but I know things they wouldn't have a chance to learn. I know her secrets.

"Your name was on Thomas's lease." Her face drains of color, and she fidgets in her seat, running her finger over the trigger of the gun in slow, rhythmic motions.

"You couldn't possibly know that. There's no proof of it."

"Because you destroyed every copy? Even the one Mr. Rawls kept in his house, in his personal filing system? Oddly enough, it was the only one that was missing."

"Coincidence. I didn't have anything to do with that - that mess." I've steered her off course, forced her to play a game she doesn't have all the rules for, and I know this could be my only chance to gain the upper hand and save myself.

"You payed his utility bills. You bought his groceries." I see the gears in her head grinding, the synapses firing in her brain as she tries to figure out how I know the truths she's tried so desperately to erase, and gradually, the lights flick on behind her eyes, prismatic green illuminated by the dawn of understanding.

"The information you have was obtained illegally, Ms. Willows. You of all people should know that breaking into someone's home makes the evidence you find inadmissible in a court of law."

"He said he followed you here, but he didn't, did he? You brought him here. You set him up in an apartment. You took care of him. Whether you admit it or not, you helped make the mess." The tips of her ears turn red, the flush spreading down her cheeks and neck, and I know I've hit a nerve, found the soft spot on the Goliath.

" _I_ didn't make a mess. _He_ made the fucking mess. He ruined everything!" She stands up, tipping the chair back and sending it toppling to the floor, anger making her jumpy and wired, too furious to stay still.

"How did he ruin everything?" She stops in mid stride, her wild gaze locking on to my face, and I'm afraid she's going to lash out, to bust another tooth or break another bone, but her shoulders slump as her eyes grow misty.

"I just wanted to make it better. I wanted her to look at me like she used to."

"Sara?"

"He showed up at my door, looking for her. I had just gotten another copy of the divorce papers in the mail, and I was running out of stall tactics. It seemed like a sign. I thought he could save us. I thought I could bring him down here and reunite them, make us a family." A tear slips out, slinking down the valleys of her nose, hitting the top of her mouth and curving to the side. She wipes it away quickly and with force, smearing dirt across her upper lip as she sniffs. I almost feel bad for her. I attempt to switch my position on the floor, but my ribs scream at me to stay put, and my sympathy for her is lost among the painful protests ringing throughout my chest.

"But something went wrong." She swivels away from me, looking at the photographs decorating my walls, snapshots of family, of laughter and of love, talking to them instead of me.

"I set him up with a job in advance, got him an apartment. He was fine until we arrived here, and then he started acting erratic, babbling about demons and righteousness and evening the scales. I didn't know what to do, so I started looking into his past and found out he had a history of mental illness. The day he knocked on my door was the same day he was released from a state hospital in northern California."

Her words trail off as she lingers on a picture of Lindsay, Eddie, and me at a local park. It was windy that afternoon, and our hair was knotty and disheveled by the end of the day. We had a picnic under an old oak in the center of the park, at her request. She wanted both of us there, wanted to have her parents getting along and spending time with her. It was one of the few instances in which we actually did. She lifts the frame from the wall, cradling it in her hands like an infant.

"He started disappearing soon after. He'd be gone for days without getting in touch. That's when the murders started, I suppose."

"Why didn't you alert the authorities? Or tell Sara? Why did you let him kill those women?"

"I couldn't tell her. She'd know. She'd know that I made a mistake. She'd never take me back. I tried to get him to take his medication. I set up appointments with counselors and psychiatrists. He never showed. I did what I could. He was - he was beyond help." She holds the picture against her chest, hugging it like a child, her fingernails scraping against the wooden frame.

"You should have called the police, Liz. You might have been able to stop him. You might have been able to be a hero." She twists to look at me, her face scrunching up in anger or disgust, her cheeks moist from fresh tears. Suddenly, she throws the picture across the room, and it tumbles end over end before crashing violently on the floor, shards of glass glittering as they shatter and disperse.

"Then, you showed up, with your blue eyes and your pushy attitude. I saw how she looked at you, how her face changed when she talked about you. You stole my wife away from me. You robbed me of my chance at a family, and I'm going to make sure you don't don't do that to anyone ever again."


	27. Chapter 27

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.**

 **So, I know this took a while, and truth is, I super procrastinated on this last chapter. I just didn't want the story to be over, but all stories have an ending, and it was time. Thank you so much to everyone for continuing to read and review and for taking this journey with me! I'm working on some new stuff, so I hope you'll keep checking me out and enjoy what's to come! Happy Holidays to everyone!**

* * *

She has to have made a mistake. Somewhere along the line, she must have missed a detail or exposed herself to someone. She's too erratic to be thorough, too emotional to double check, and I'm counting on her reckless desperation to get me out of this. No one is expecting me anywhere, and I don't work until tomorrow. By the time anyone thinks to check on me, she'll have killed me - or worse.

Alarm bells are blaring in my head, telling me I've got more problems than just a bruised rib or a broken tooth. I try to remain calm, but it hurts when I breathe, when I move, when I speak. Fighting her doesn't seem like an option at this point, but it might be all I have, and I might die doing it.

Liz rushes to the wall, ripping down all the frames hung neatly in rows, sending them crashing to the floor, the photographs inside tearing and getting cut as glass breaks on the smiling faces underneath. She works her way around the room, using her arm to swipe knick-knacks and keepsakes off surfaces, throwing my memories to the floor in a rage. She wants to use me as an excuse for everything wrong between her and Sara, blame me for Sara's unwillingness to try again, but they were broken long before I entered the picture. She just can't accept the truth. She can't accept their end.

She rounds on me, her toxic eyes chewing through the air surrounding us, her lips twisted and wet from stray spittle, her fingers and hands scratched and bleeding.

"Do you love her?" Her question surprises me, and I fumble for a response, for the words that won't make this situation any worse, but in the back of my head, I hear a tiny voice ring out. She views my silence as defiance, and she waves the gun in her hand around like a novelty toy. "You like playing house with her? You like the way she makes you feel? She fuck you yet? She'll leave, you know. She'll get bored and fucking leave you by the curb like yesterday's trash."

I grow angrier with each sentence, an indignant, scornful anger, and I feel the flush heating my cheeks, glowing under my skin, hundreds of tiny fires all being stoked at the same time. Sara doesn't deserve to be talked about like this, with such crude disdain and ignorance. I'm about to attempt an irate tirade when a noise filters through my senses, drawing my attention to my left, and I see a flash of something dark in my peripheral, something quick, something with height. I turn back to Liz, wondering if she heard what I did, if she saw what I saw, but her focus hasn't wavered. She's still trained on me with a killer's gaze and anxious hands.

"Well?"

"Well what?" It's not the smartest of replies, but my mind is starting to fog, and so much is happening around me that I think I may be going crazy. Am I hallucinating figures and shapes? Am I losing consciousness? How much longer do I have?

"Do you love her?!" She's not going to let this go. I look past her, away from her frantic gaze, and I stop breathing. Standing behind her is Sara, feet planted firmly on the ground, gun trained on Liz's back. She stares at me with helpless rage, with confusion and fear, and I can't help but think that I'm dying, that this is my last vision before death - being saved. Sara raises a finger to her lips as she takes small steps closer to Liz, and I want to cry out for her, to run to her, to forget the sad, unstable woman in front of me ever existed.

Liz is still waiting for me to say something, to answer her, and I look away from Sara as I speak. Even if she is just a mirage, this isn't how I wanted to tell her. This isn't how it should be.

"Yes. I love her." I watch as what's left of Liz crumbles before me, the admission like a knife to the gut, twisting as it pierces flesh, pushed in to the hilt. Tears flow down her cheeks as sobs cause her chest to heave and stutter, her breaths broken as she pulls air into her lungs in quick, shallow gasps. She raises the gun, and it shakes in her hand, wobbling from left to right, her grip not tight enough to keep her aim steady, her resolve waning as her world shrinks around her, squeezing her past the edge of reality.

"She's - she's mine…forever. She promised me." Sara takes another step, closing the distance between her and Liz, the muzzle of her gun resting just below what were once bouncy, blonde curls.

"It's time to stop, Liz." Her words are firm and solid, her strong voice cutting through the din, through the wreck of this night, and Liz's face drains of all color, like she's heard a ghost from the beyond, a long dead spirit risen to haunt her waking eyes. She turns slowly, facing Sara, stepping forward to try to get closer, to be near her, to feel her, but Sara doesn't budge, and Liz walks into the gun as she moves, her chest bumping against the hard metal. She looks down at the weapon, confusion and hurt mingling with the tears on her face, then back up at Sara.

"Sar?"

"Put your gun on the floor, Liz." She's not hearing Sara, not comprehending the seriousness of her tone, the gravity of the the situation.

"It's me, Sar. Lizzy. _Your_ Lizzy. I came back for you. I've been waiting." Her voice, like her words are fragile, shaky and brittle, poised to shatter as they hang from her trembling lips like delicate icicles.

"Put the gun on the floor, and we can talk, okay?"

"Just tell me you don't love her, and I'll do whatever you want."

"No, Liz."

"Say it!" Sara risks a glance in my direction, her gaze brimming with emotions, with feelings I wish I could touch, could hold in my fingertips and let them fill me with their intensity.

"I can't." It's the final blow, and both Sara and I watch with nervous anticipation as Liz explodes, a supernova in its final stage of destruction. She screams, a guttural, forlorn call that echoes off the ceiling and walls, needling across my skin with a despair so profound my bones rattle at the joints. It's the cry of a lost woman losing her faith, letting go of the dreams that were keeping her grounded. It's the sound of madness.

She abruptly swivels away from Sara, her resentful, ferocious eyes boring into me, accusing me, making me out to be the Devil. She takes stilted steps towards me, her body moving in jerky motions as she raises her gun.

"Liz." Sara says it with a cautionary tone, an ultimatum that states if you go any further, I have to take action, but Liz doesn't hear. She's decided I'm the one that caused everything wrong, that I'm the one that ruined her life, and I have to pay. She cocks the pistol, and I swallow the rocks in my throat, wincing as the force presses against my esophagus.

"Please, Liz. I don't want to do this." Sara's voice is pleading, and I know she doesn't want to shoot her, doesn't want to pull the trigger, but Liz isn't giving her a choice. Liz tilts her head, and a knowing smile spreads across her face, as if she's aware of what she's doing, forcing Sara to take her life - as if that's what she wanted all along. She straightens her arm, the black barrel staring at me with purpose, and a shot cracks through the air.

The bullet burrows into Liz's shoulder, knocking her off balance, and she lands with a thud on her knees, a hint of surprise replacing her smile, followed quickly by an adamant glare. I know what she's doing. She doesn't want to have to face her colleagues or the public. She doesn't want to be locked in prison. She doesn't want to be drug through the court system and put on display. She doesn't want to live with the shame.

She hoists herself back to a standing position, stumbling and weaving as she tries to stay steady, the blood beginning to seep through her shirt and run down her arm, crimson rivulets peeking out from her sleeve. She raises her arm again, and another bullet pummels into her back, the shot spinning her around and placing her face to face with Sara. The weapon drops from her hand, now slick with blood, and she crumples to the floor, aspirating streams of red as her lungs frantically attempt to breathe.

Sara watches as Liz's chest stutters and heaves, as her eyes roll from left to right, as her fingers grip at pieces of carpet. We both know there's nothing that can be done. The first shot was a warning, the second was an ending. She steps around Liz as the dying woman's eyes close, and she rushes to where I am, propped up against the side of the couch. Her hands cover my face, run through my hair and down my neck, fervently searching for wounds or blood, for anything amiss.

"Are you okay?" My eyes feel heavy, like I've been awake for days, and as the adrenaline of the moment begins to wane, the rest of my body does too. "Cath? Can you hear me?" There's panic in her words, and as she dials 911 on the cellphone she digs out of her pocket, I can see her hands shaking while she presses buttons. Her voice filters in and out through the fog in my head, but I hear small snippets of her exchange, words like 'ambulance' and 'hurry'. I reach out to touch her, grazing her skin with my fingertips, and when I feel the warmth of her, it's like learning all the secrets in the universe, knowing the reasons for the past and the possibilities for the future, understanding that wherever she is, that is where I belong .

"You came back." She looks confused, her eyebrows furrowing together into tight knots.

"Of course I did. You were out of coffee, so I went to grab some, and the line was so long. And when I came back, I realized I didn't have a front door key, so I came in through the garage, and I heard Liz yelling and -" She's rambling out of nervousness, out of fear, trying to convince herself that if she keeps talking, everything will be okay, that I'll be okay.

"Sara." She stops, staring at me with worried eyes, silently begging me to stay conscious, to stay with her, to stay alive.

"I can't lose you, Cath. Not now. Not after all we've been through, all we've shared. You know, all those years ago, I came to Vegas for Grissom, but you're why I stayed. You're why I wake up every morning. You're what makes my heart beat. It's you, Cath. It's always been you. It always will be you. Please, don't…"

Her voice fades out like the end of a song, the last bars of music swallowed by static and silence. Darkness clouds my vision, and all I can see are stars, twinkling lights burning in the sky, constellations shining like beacons, Pegasus stretching his mighty wings across the cosmos to guide me home.

* * *

I squint against the harsh light as my eyes flutter open, adjusting to the brightness of the fluorescent bulbs flickering above me, and I groan into the still air, my chest pounding with an insistent pain. I shift to try and alleviate the throb on my left side, but it only makes it worse, and I bite my tongue to stop from crying out.

"Ah, there ya are! Thought you were gonna be out all night." The familiar voice resonates from my right, and I turn to see Loni, a comforting, warm smile gracing her lips. "Thought I told ya I didn't want to see ya back here again, Red. Got into another heap of trouble, huh?"

"Guess so." She shakes her head and places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Ya took some blows, but you're gonna be alright, hun. Those ribs will be tender for a while, though, got three broken ones." As if to corroborate her statement, a stabbing sensation ripples through my side, and I wince, holding back the tears that gather in the corners of my eyes.

"Ya up for some visitors? Ya got a whole lobby full of people just waiting to see ya." I nod. I need to see Sara, need to know that these past months haven't just been some macabre nightmare, that we're finally safe. Loni heads for the hallway, shooting me another smile before she disappears into the bowels of the hospital.

The first to enter are Lindsay and my mother, their faces full of the same concern I saw the last time I was here, their fears written all over them in capital letters. We hug, as best we can, and I try to assuage their worries and doubts, assuring them I'm okay. Warrick, Nick, and Greg shuffle in next, lightening the mood just with their presence, and we all chat and crack jokes, small attempts at forgetting the reason we're all here, little steps in moving forward.

Grissom slips in as the guys leave for shifts and my mother and Lindsay go in search of food, taking a seat next to me in one of the plastic chairs left vacant. He's silent for a few minutes, letting the energy of the room dissipate into the air ducts, letting both our minds settle.

"You okay?" He looks like a little boy when he asks, scared but trying to stay strong, and I wish I could sit up and wrap my arms around him. Something about him has always made me feel like everything will be okay, that he could solve any problem with a fancy quote or a memorized passage from some obscure science text, even if the odds were against him. A good friend always makes the impossible seem like a reality.

"Is Liz dead?" He gives me a funny look, like I should know the answer, but I need to make sure. I need to hear it.

"Yes."

"Then, yeah. I'm okay."

"This is the second time you've gotten lucky."

"I know."

"I worry about you." I worry about him too, about how many more years he can keep doing this job. He bottles up his emotions, remains stoic and stable for everyone else, neglecting himself in the process. It's both admirable and unhealthy, but he's still the best the lab has ever had. He always will be.

"I know, Gil." I want to ask him where Sara is, but he anticipates my question, shifting the focus away from himself, away from his feelings.

"She should be here soon. She had to answer some questions about what happened." Just as he finishes his sentence, Sara's head peeks in through the door, followed by the rest of her body, and she stops short when she sees Gil sitting next to me. They nod to each other, and he rises from his seat, giving my hand a tender squeeze before leaving. He and Sara exchange smiles as he passes, small tokens of gratitude and relief, silent gestures relaying affection.

She waits until the door shuts to advance, her long strides closing the distance with ease, and she takes my hand, holding it between her own, using her thumb to stroke my skin in tiny circle shapes. Words elude us, staying just out of our range of expression, too simple to convey the thoughts, the emotions rolling through us in shock waves.

She is my sky, my boundless canvas of stars and galactic dust, the gravity that holds me close, keeps me from floating into endless space. We are far from perfect, and we may not know all the planets that await our discovery, the milky ways that stay motionless until we ride them, but we'll traverse the vastness together. We'll outgrow our solar system and expand into worlds unseen, basking in the light of a hundred different suns.

"I love you, Cat." It's all I need, all I ever needed.

"I love you, too, Sara." She leans down, her lips soft and welcoming as our mouths meet, and I melt into the kiss, into the taste of her skin, the smell of her hair falling around my face in a silky curtain.

I know that whether we find ourselves surrounded by toxic atmospheres or careening through the sky alongside shooting stars, amid a cacophony of chaos or under a celestial calm, we'll have each other to hold onto and to love, and that's more than enough.


End file.
